Singoalla; a mediaeval legend

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SINGOALLA

Viktor rypberq

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NOTICE.

The entire English language rights in this
book are vested in th£ present Puhlislwrs ,
and being copyright, are reserved.

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Singoalia.

[Frontispiece (see p. 96).

SIMQOfiLLA

n Mediaeval Legend

BY

VIKTOR RYDBERG

Translated from the Swedish
by

JOSEF FREDBftRJ

WITH 25 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

^' or ^»^

or

Xon^on au& 1Fle\vca5tIc*on*Zi;^ne :

THE \VALT]£K SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.

NEW YORK: 3 EAST 14TH STREET
1904

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PUBLISHERS^ NOTE.

In issuing the present book, Singoalla, it may not be deemed
inappropriate to present the reader with a brief sketch of the
literature of the country to which it belongs, together with a
few lines respecting the life, and place in literature of its
accomplished, versatile author.

The literature of a country and people claiming ancestors as
far back as the Stone Age, or some 1500 years B.C., cannot fail
to have a commanding, permanent charm for every student of
literature. All of that little which has so far reached us, has
been read with avidity, and enjoyed, not less for its philo-
sophic charm and romanticism, than for its fantastic turn and
powerful colouring. The translations from the Swedish that
have appeared in this country can hardly be called numerous,
the Swedish tongue being one that has hitherto appealed
feebly to the English linguist, and vice versa. Consequently,
we are on the whole less familiar with the history and growth
of Swedish literature, new or old, than we are, say, with the
French, Italian, German, or even Russian.

It was the great work of Luther which gave life to
Swedish literature. The Reformation infused the literature
of Sweden as markedly as it altered the religious conditions
of England. Two literary pioneers — Olaus and Laurentius
Petrie — gave their country a Bible in good Swedish, and
from that moment the growth of letters in Sweden went on
apace. At first the principal books had theological or his-
torical topics as their subjects ; but by the time of the Thirty
Years' War (1618-48) a much more varied character marked
the literature of the country. Political pamphlets, essays,
newspapers, with works on mythology, the drama, philology,
etc., began to appear.

V

publiebcre' 1Rote

The "Father of Swedish Literature" was Stjernhjehn
[1598- 1 672], who set the fashion of classic-humorous poetry.
In Triewald \circa 1680-1743] we meet Sweden's first satirist
— one who was as bitter upon the older writers as Dalin
[1708-63] was elegant and polished in his employment of his
mother tongue. Then came a notable succession of brilliant
writers of poetry and prose, among whom two at least stand
out. One was the poetess Hedvig Nordenflycht [1718-63],
the writer of In Mevioriam lyrics collected under the title of
the Sorrowing Turtle-Dove ; the other was Mork \circa
1700-63], a prose-man. During the eighteenth century
Swedish writers devoted much attention to the treatment
of science. The two Rudbecks left famous books ; in addi-
tion to which came the learned writings of Linnaeus, the
great botanist; Rosen, the founder of Swedish medicine;
Swedenborg, the philosopher-theologian ; and others. The
golden age of Swedish literature occupied the reigns of
Gustavus IIL and IV. — between the years 1771-1809. Pro-
minent figures of the period are Bellman [Frecdman's
Epistles), Kellgren {The New Creation), Thorild, Rosenstein,
Alderbeth, Lidner the poet, and the philosopher-author
Hoijer.

The opening of the nineteenth century found Hammarskold
[1785-1827] at the head of a band of writers with views and
ideas which they were determined to force. They leaned to
the romantic as against the academic in literature, and
although their doctrines and principles met at first with
much ridicule from the stolid academicians, the romanticists
prevailed sufficiently to effect their purpose. They secured a
sncces cTestime of such worth that there sprang up in Sweden
a school something akin to the German romantic school. In
course of time this romantic movement was dethroned, if
not extinguished. There was a sudden rush to the ancient
Scandinavian mythology. Geijer [17S3-1847], one of the
most versatile of Swedish historical writers, and Tegner
[1782- 1 846], whose poetic genius has left an ineffaceable
mark upon the literature of Sweden — these two writers,

vi

Ipublisbcre* IRote

particularly, and a band of literary associates stationed
themselves midway between the pseudo-classic and romantic
schools, while they pointed to the manly virtues of the
Swedes' ancestors as models for imitation and sources of
poetic inspiration. Here was the " Gothic revival."

The story of Swedish literature during the nineteenth
century would be a long one if even meagre justice w^ere
done to the long list of writers and their books. Runeberg
[1804-77], the greatest poet who has written in Swedish, and
the national poet of Finland, was the surpassing light of the
century. He was of almost highest poetic genius, and
overshadowed all his contemporaries. Otherwise Snoilsky,
Rydberg, Topelius, and others might have been more heard
of outside their ow^n country. Yet poetry claimed not all
attention during the past ten decades in Sweden. The
nineteenth century more than atoned for the paucity of
novelists in its predecessors. Many female novelists —
notably Frederika Brema — adorned the era; while of the
opposite sex there were Mellin, Sparre, Wetterberg, and
several more, including the author of this book — Rydberg.

Viktor Rydberg, who became a really notable Swedish
man of letters, was born at Jonkoping, a town on Lake
Wetter in Sweden, on the i8th of December 1828. As a
child he evinced a great love for reading, especially of
literature of a romantic and weird type, and this colouring-
has very largely permeated all Rydberg's writings. When
twenty-three years of age he qualified as a student at the
University of Lund, and a few years later decided to take up
journalism and letters as a profession.

It was not long ere his remarkable literary talent asserted
itself — and what was more, attracted the notice of European
litterateurs. Several minor pieces betraying his exceptional
gifts soon found their way among the current literature of his
country, but it was not until the "'fifties" (1850-60) that
Rydberg really gave true evidence of himself. In this
decade appeared a book destined to be his first great

vii

publiebers' 1Rotc

work. This was entitled The Last Athenian ("Den Siste
Atenaren").

Sifigoalla, of which an English version is now for the first
time placed before the public, was the next important work
to follow The Last Athenian. This was succeeded by a work
of partly religious, partly philosophic character, entitled The
Dogma of the Bible Concerniyig Christ. In 1877 his Roman
Days appeared, and was subsequently translated into English
and published by Messrs. Putnam's Sons. Then followed
another important work — a species of counterpart to The
Last Atheyiian. This novel was entitled The Armonrer.
It is a splendid word-picture, and depicts in glowing colour
the stirring episodes of the Reformation and the controversies
which led up to and were consequent upon Luther's daring
battle for Religion.

It was in the year 1876 that the University of Upsala con-
ferred upon Rydberg the degree of an Honorary Doctor of
Philosophy. In the same year he was elected a Fellow of the
Royal Swedish Academy, an institution consisting of eighteen
members only. A few years later — in 1884 — Rydberg was
appointed Professor of Social History in the University of
Stockholm; later on he succeeded to the professorial chair
of Art in the same institution. Yet greater honour awaited
him. In 1887 he was made an honorary member of the
Academy of Arts. All this while Rydberg was a ceaseless
worker. His professorial studies and duties in no way
stemmed the untiring energy of his pen, which retained all
its vigour down almost to the hour when the quill was laid
down and he ceased to write for ever. Rydberg, a literary
luminary of no small magnitude, passed away, to the great
grief of his countrymen, on the 20th September 1895, aged
sixty-seven years. Shortly after his death his Lectures on
Philosophy and the History of Art were published.

Rydberg is a poet as well as a writer of prose; indeed,
in his compositions he is a lyrist, or, to use an obsolete title
a lyric by preference. He shines out in his poetry almost
as splendidly as in his more straightforward compositions.

viii

publisbere' mote

His great gifts of feeling and imagination have led him to
the expression of creations in verse possessing all the
qualities of true poetry. The power of rendering in
melodious words the thoughts which are the creations of
feeling and imagination is not a far-removed accomplish-
ment and possibility for the average person ; but the true art
of metrical composition, — the capacity to say great things
in verse, and that verse of a character that will move the
soul — this portion is denied to most of us. Rydberg in all
his poems has given ample proof of its possession. It may
be wondered why his work is practically unknown in this
country. Certainly not for any lack of character, of beauty,
or of many-sided sentiment and expression. Poetry is not as
translatable as prose, and the translator from one tongue to
another is hampered at every turn— and these usual difficul-
ties are not lightened in the case of the Swedish language.
When all is overcome, however, Rydberg will be found a
delightful minor poet to whom to turn.

As a translator Rydberg has accomplished much excel-
lent work, notably his version into Swedish of Goethe's Faust.
On an extensive scale, too, are his lesser writings. These
take the form of treatises on mythology — notably his
Researches in Teutonic Mythology, history, philology, etc.;
besides which there are a large number of essays and
fugitive articles too numerous to mention.

It would be misleading to advance for Rydberg the right
to a place in the foremost rank of modern men of letters; but
that he claims our great attention for his services to nineteenth
century literature is beyond doubt. There are some master
minds — especially in literature — who dazzle by the splendour
of their genius; others whose extraordinary, if not super-
lative intellectual gifts, shine with a gentler but often more
sustained light. The latter is not infrequently the more
glorious, the most appreciated light, because it is so main-
tained and sustaining. Amid lesser lights, a uniformly
illuminative star will command the attention more surely

ix a*

publi0bcr0' H^ote

than a fitful burst of infinitely greater brilliancy. To such
a constellation Viktor Rydberg may be said to belong.
Though highly esteemed and admired by the educated
section of his countrymen, who mourned him deeply at his
death —

(" One has only to die to be great ")—

Rydberg during his lifetime was little known outside his
own country. It is not improbable, however, that Rydberg's
posthumous fame will be greater than that of his lifetime.
Wherever his writings are translated to-day they are eagerly
sought for and studied. This may be instanced of Singoalla.
This legend-story appeared in book form the first time in
1865, and speedily ran into several editions. Subsequently it
was translated into the Danish, German, Dutch, Finnish,
French, Spanish, and Italian languages, until now it is pre-
sented to English readers in their mother tongue. It is safe
to predict a fair future for Rydberg. As his works become
known by means of translations, the lustre of his genius will
illumine a wider range, and his literary influence must become
steadily more apparent and determined.

The Last Athenian was the work which called forth the
immediate approval of Rydberg's countrymen, besides
attracting attention throughout Europe and America. It
was translated into English by William Widgery Thomas,
this edition being published at Philadelphia, U.S.A., in i86g.
In The Last Athenia7i, the author takes us back to the dawn
of Christianity. He shows us something of the inevitable
struggle between heathenism and early Christianity ; and if
he does not sufficiently gauge the depths of pollution from
which Christ and the Cross rescued the world, he yet
throws much original thought on, probably, the most
momentous epoch in the world's history. With that verve
and picturesqueness so characteristic of the northern artistic
temperament, Rydberg introduces picture after picture of
most aff"ecting character, delineating the antipathies and
antagonism of the ancient mind and that of the Christian

X

lpuDli6bcr9' mote

upon that all-absorbing theme — the life of the day and that of
the world to come. Briefly, the author vindicates a broad
acceptation of Christianity, as opposed to fanatical orthodoxy
and religious compulsion.

As the title-page shows, Singoalla is a mediaeval Swedish
saga. Without wishing to charm the reader in its favour,
we may safely distinguish it as one of the most romantic
and picturesque compositions which we know of in Scan-
dinavian literature. Rydberg, we see, is still the mediaevalist
— still in his favourite Middle Ages. It would be a doubtful
kindness to the reader to anticipate his legitimate privilege
of exploiting the story and enjoying it for himself. We will
say nothing of the story itself beyond to state that Singoalla
— this is the name of the heroine — is a novel occupying
quite a pre-eminent place among Rydberg's prose writings.
We know that its author has left a great mark upon the
literature of Scandinavian mythology. In Singoalla, his
romanticism is still strikingly in the foreground, and
strangely tinctured with that fantastic, pantheistical philo-
sophy which was so much a part and parcel of Rydberg.
The period of the book is the Middle Ages — that slowly
awakening epoch when Europe tardily revived from the
black night of Roman madness to the faint dawn of Western
sweetness and light; and all the peculiar mysticism and
picturesqueness distinguishing that time pervade the book.
Against such a background the splendid dramatis persoiice
of the story stand out in wondrously real fashion and with
vivid effect. It is, indeed, the strong contrast nature of the
story which lends it so much charm. There is so much
darkness and so much light. Yet, the chiaroscuro in the
picture is deftly disposed, and we get a balance of light in
shadow and shadow in light as perfect as could be desired.
Rydberg's forte is the distinctness and variety of his
characters and a power of clothing them in most attractive
colours. Singoalla furnishes ample confirmation of this.
In the foreground are his many living figures gorgeously
treated standing out wonderfully against a background of

xi

Ipubli0ber0* Bote

sombre hue — well in keeping with that heart-rending, dark-
night despair which followed in the wake of the Great Plague,
and culminated in the Black Death of the fourteenth
century. Singoalla is an affecting picture of those times,
told in language as charming as it is simple.

Throughout his poetry, as in his prose, Rydberg exhibits
consistently a great depth of thought— reflective of a strong
and noble mind. In his own country particularly Rydberg
is held to be of great importance as a pioneer in the struggle
for freedom of thought. He was ever bent upon an insist-
ence of new principles in the several spheres of thought.
A champion of Idealism, he never ceased to preach the
crusade of the brightest and best in intellectual reasoning
and deduction — a most glorious task bearing in mind the
narrow-minded naturalism that marred the mind of his
country a few decades back. He blew fresh breath into
the fusty spiritual atmosphere of his day, and in a long
struggle for truth and enlightenment he sowed seed which
speedily germinated, and is — even so soon — already bearing
rich fruit. The cause of the poor and weak, and the
principle of right against might were as close to Rydberg's
heart as life itself, as every student of his poetry will readily
discover. It is to be regretted that Rydberg's poetical
compositions are not translated into English. Unfortunately,
as we have said, those who are bold enough to attempt the
reproduction of foreign verse are constantly confronted with
obstacles which present themselves in a much less degree in
prose translation.

Rydberg was not a prolific writer, but he took a wide
literary range. With a powerfully descriptive pen, he
brought home to his readers social domestic pictures of
ancient, mediaeval, and modern times. He was not as was
our Dickens — a chronicler of his own times, of things as he
found them. Rydberg loved plunging into the cloudy vista
of the past and rescuing the beautiful from oblivion. From
subjects relating to the history of civilisation he passed on
to those of the antique ; but in either case his style with its

xii

publi6ber0* IHote

classical nobleness and purity was perfectly adapted. His
learned works on Scandinavian mythology will constitute
an undying monument of his industry and learned research ;
and here many might well envy Rydberg for his splendid
virility.

The superlative feature of Rydberg's labours is that his
writings may be read by all — young and old. Latitudinarian
as he was in breadth of thought and intellect, he was cer-
tainly a Christian — one who had far from lost his footing
on the rock of Eternity. A pioneer in thought, Rydberg,
with dauntless courage, prepared the way in his country for
fresh ideas of thought and vision. These were of the new
rationalistic order, and of course they met with opposition.
Like all pioneers, he met the usual fate: he was misunder-
stood and decried — and that in some few instances fiercely.
Rydberg, however, laboured on, unmoved and determined,
his remarkable creative faculty showing no sign of wane
until it stopped for ever. To all branches of literature he
turned, and left an indelible mark upon each department
with which he identified himself. Viktor Rydberg deserves,
indeed, well of both his country and the entire literary world.

FREDK. J. CROWEST.
Editorial Offices,

The Works, Felling,

December 1903.

Xlll

CONTENTS.

part tbe first

CHAl'. PAGE

I. The Castle in the Forest

II. SiNGOALLA ....

III. Longing ....

IV. The Strangers from the Land of Egypt
V. Erland and Singoalla

VI. In the Twilight by the Forest Brook
VII. The Combat ....
VIII. The Camp ....
IX. The Breaking-up of the Camp
X. The Night ....
XI. The Poisoned Draught

I
20

28

35

45

54

57
61

89

96

part tbe Second.

I. Benoni ..... lOI

II. The Knight and the Pilgrim . . 124

III. The Cave ..... 134

XV

Contents

CHAP.

IV. The Secret Power .
V. Day and Night
VI. The Last Night-Wandering
VII. Dawn ....
VIII. The Plague .
IX. The Hermits of the Forest

PAGE
146

194
209
223

XVI

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

The Poisoned Draught . . . Frontispiece

The Castle in the Forest . . .2

Father Henry's Stories . . . .10

SiNGOALLA . . . . . '14

Father Henry Blessing Erland . . 26

The Strangers from the Land of Egypt . 28

Erland and Singoalla . . . .38

In the Twilight by the Forest Brook . 50

The Combat . . . . .56

The Camp . . . . . .66

The Breaking-up of the Camp: Assim . . 72

Erland Tied to the Tree . . -78

The Night . . . . . .94

Benoni ...... no

Consecration of Benoni's Pious Mission . 124

The Cave ...... 140

The Secret Power .... 146

xvii

Contents

CHAP.

IV. The Secret Power .
V. Day and Night
VI. The Last Night-Wandering
VII. Dawn ....
VIII. The Plague .
IX. The Hermits of the Forest

PAGE
146

194

2og
223

XVI

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

The Poisoned Draught . . . Frontispiece

The Castle in the Forest . . .2

Father Henry's Stories . . . .10

SiNGOALLA . . . . . '14

Father Henry Blessing Erland . , 26

The Strangers from the Land of Egypt . 28

Erland and Singoalla . . . .38

In the Twilight by the Forest Brook . 50

The Combat . . . . -56

The Camp . . . . . .66

The Breaking-up of the Camp: Assim . . 72

Erland Tied to the Tree . . -78

The Night . . . . . -94

Benoni ...... no

Consecration of Benoni's Pious Mission . 124

The Cave ...... 140

The Secret Power .... 146

xvii

Xt6t Of 3llU0tratlon6

PAGE

"They only rested" . .

. 156

He Seized his Bow

. 160

The Last Night-Wandering

. 176

Dawn ......

. 202

The Plague .....

. 208

The Knight and the Monk

. 2l5

Brother John ....

. 224

After a Long Embrace

. 226

will

SINGOALLA.

/

SINGOALLA.

part tbe Jfirst
I.

The Castle in the Forest.

N an islet in one of the lakes of Smoland
there stood a castle which had for a
time belonged to the family of Mone-
skold. It consisted of several oak-built houses
joined together, and a round tower of large blocks
of granite. The monotony of the tower-wall here
and there was broken by a loop-hole with round
arch and little sandstone pillars.

It looked as if each successive owner had
brought materials to the islet, and added his
portion to the whole, according to his liking and
the needs of his time.

In the fourteenth century the castle was one
entire building, with its lines broken by roofs of

I I

Singoalla

different pitch and height, and with walls meeting
at different angles. Though poor in windows, they
were rich in projections, galleries, and sym-
bolic works of wrought iron and carving. Above
the well-carved posts of the gateway there stood
statues of the three martyrs — Unaman, Sunaman,
and Vinaman, — imposing perhaps, if not beautiful,
that stretched their arms towards the sky as
if to call down blessings upon the castle of Eko.

The islet was surrounded by a stockade, and
a drawbridge joined it to the land.

Time had painted the castle grey and brown,
and it looked as if it held past and future in
mystery. It seemed as if its silence lay upon it
that nothing might disturb its brooding memories
and presentiments.

Fir-clad grey stone steeps were mirrored in
the lake, and the dark pine forest stretched far
and wide every way. In one spot alone the
shore sloped treeless towards the lake, where the
rising gables of a monastery peeped out from
between the birch trees of the valley.

Its foundations still exist. A have sat there
on a late autumn day, the sky gloomy above

2

Cbc Castle in tbc dforcst.

Sirgoilin.]

[Face p. 2.

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^be Castle in tbe fforcet

me, while the damp breath of the wind rustled
and sighed through the pale reeds of the shore,
with dead and dying plants at my feet. Though
a solitary gentian or pansy still preserved a be-
lated, transient splendour, the hues of decay
spread melancholy over the fields and forest.
The mountain-ash that had sprung between
tne stones bore, on branches almost leafless,
clusters of berries which glowed in the hazy day-
light with drops saved from the blood of summer.
What the name of the monastery was none but
archaeologists know ; tradition has it that the
"Black Death" laid it waste, and that since it
has been left to decay.

About the year 1340, Riddar^ Bengt Mone-
skold was lord of Eko. There was a saying — even
then old — " that the castle lay in silence "; and it
was said of its successive owners, that a word cost
them more than the bestowal of large charities.
The Moneskolds seemed to go their way noise-
lessly like the moon,^ which, according to one

' " Riddar," equivalent to the English " Knight," was at that
period the highest title of nobility in Sweden.

'^ Moneskold in Swedish signifies " Moonshield."

Singoalla

tradition, was said to have been their heathen
ancestor's friend, and given him a silver sickle.
Amonof the numerous memorials and emblems of
their ancestors which hung upon the walls of the
castle, the sickle was, however, nowhere seen, except
over the door leading to the garden, but here it
lay under the Blessed Virgin's feet. Did anybody-
ask the good knight Bengt about this strange
tradition, he made a deprecatory gesture, or the
sign of the cross, and answered: "It was in heathen
times." His faithful servant Erasmus, the hunts-
man, was more ready to give a clearer account of
the matter.

The people of the neighbourhood knew why
silence brooded over Eko and the Eko family.
When the messengers of Christianity — those three
whose images stood above the portal, and raised
their eyes and hands towards the sky — came to Smo-
land, and from its barrows began to speak of the
White Christ, and the Holy Father in Rome, he of
the ancestors of the Moneskolds who was then livine
had vehemently striven against them, gathered the
people to the hill-sanctuaries and the holy groves,
and urged them to hold fast to impenetrable Odin,

4

Z\K Castle in tbe jforcst

white Balder, and mighty Thor ! It is said, in
honour of them he sang, to the harp, songs so
mighty and enchanting, that the folk thought
they heard the voices of all living things sing-
ing with him. So they hardened their hearts
against the new faith, and drove away its mes-
sengers. That was why silence brooded over Eko
and the Eko family. But silence was not now a
thing of penance, as it is said once to have been,
for seven pious generations had striven to lighten
their consciences by atonement for the guilt of the
heathen sincrer.

It was said that no Christian Moneskold could
or would sing under the open sky — none, that is,
before Erland, Riddar Bengt's son, who was
still a boy. People often had heard with wonder
his voice from out of the forest gloom, in which
with bow and hunting-spear he loved to stroll,
as he sang song after song, weird, wild, and
beautiful when the fir-trees and spruces murmured
their loudest. He went alone, save when he wished
Erasmus the huntsman to accompany him.

Erasmus was a clever woodsman, skilled in the
nature and ways of wild beasts, and mightily learned

5

Singoalla

in all that touched wood-sprites, gnomes, and elves.
But Erland's most constant companions were two
dogs, large and shaggy, with bloodshot eyes and
keen fangs, Kack and Grip by name, hated by the
neighbours, and eyed by the wolves with hungry
and fierce dread.

From the highest ledge of rock overhanging the
lake, Erland used to plunge into the water. Swim-
ming he loved — especially when the wind stormed
and the waves were white. People fancied there was
something restless and wild about this boy — some
lingering touch of heathen ancestry — something in
him that had not known the sacred water of the font.

What if that heathen Moneskold, who had not
suffered himself to be marked even with the sign
of the cross, and who on his death-bed had raved
of warrior-maidens and the mead of the undying
— what if he had returned in Erland? That
was the question which the peasants asked them-
selves in their homes. But the Eko servants
avowed that Erland crossed himself devoutly
and said his prayers with clasped hands; that he
was obedient to his father and mother, and showed

his teacher, Father Henry, reverence; that he

6

iTbc Castle in the Jfovcet

was kind-hearted though quick-tempered, bounti-
ful like all the Moneskolds, and anxious to be just,
even if he was not always so. Erasmus the hunts-
man, who believed he knew Erland best, said "Yea"
to all this, but with a shake of his head.

Bengt had not made life at Eko more lively than
his fathers, and his wife Elfrida, a woman of a
comely build, slender and fair, who bore Christ's
Sermon on the Mount in her glance and a gleam
from Tabor on her forehead, did her many duties
quietly and with authority.

Twice a year there was a banquet given at Eko,
to which came kinsmen and friends from distant
estates and large farms. These feasts were splendid.
Gold-embroidered tapestries covered the walls of the
banqueting-hall, and costly plate the tables ; the
wine-cellar gave up its stores of rare drink. Merri-
ment was not suppressed, though there was a certain
constraint. The guests did not know why, but they
felt somewhat subdued, even when they were led to
bed mellow. Herr^ Gudmund Ulfsax himself, the

' The title " Herr " was at that time the equivalent of the English
"Squire,"' and was the original title of nobility in Sweden. Now
" Herr" is merely equivalent to the English "Mr."

7

Singoalla

nearest neighbour, who shouted rather than spoke,
and cursed more than he blessed when he had plenty
of beer and wine under his doublet, was courteous
at Eko, moderate and ceremonious in word and
bearing, and, when put to bed, babbled — with a
respectable attempt at devotion learned in his child-
hood and now foreign to him — his Latin evening'
prayer, if indeed he did not put his morning prayer
in its place.

Riddar Bensft was a seasoned warrior. He had
fought under Mats Kettilmundsson for the cause of
the unfortunate Dukes, and in Scania against the
Lords of Holstein. Now, old and grey, he dis-
charged, in a fatherly and prudent manner, his duties
as master. The winter days he passed mostly in
the workshop in company with Olof Hallstensson,
the yeoman, who had carved the altar in the parish
church. There the two, sparing of words, worked
untiringly, and from their hands came carvings of
angels, apostles, and saints: Maries and Catherines,
Gabriel with a lily in his hand, St. Peter with keys,
St. Paul with a sword, St. Sigfrid with a staff, St.
George in armour, and St. Sebastian with arrows in

his half-naked body. The real craftsman was Olof

8

Zhc Castle in the potest

Hallstensson, though the Knight did not do the
rough work only ; he carved the folds of the mantles
skilfully and laid on the colours well. Many winters
Bengt had passed thus. Of holy images he seemed
never to have enough. The chapels of the castle
and the monastery had been provided, and the
banqueting-hall and the bedroom. Even in the
long, dark corridors saints peeped out of nooks and
corners, and dwelt on landings of the stairs,
absorbed in solemn thoughts. In the part of the
castle which was believed to date from heathen
times, stood St. Sigfrid, and before him knelt the
heathen who had set Balder before Christ, and Odin
before the Holy Trinity. His image, as one might
see, expressed repentance for this grievous sin, and
prayed fervently that his kin who came after him
might not be smitten by evil therefor. A harp —
that of the magic heathen song — lay broken in
pieces beside him. Many a time, when Bengt awoke
in the night, he thought of this poor soul in Purga-
tory, but consoled himself with the reflection that
masses for the dead and the good deeds of his
kinsfolk mitigated its pain, and rendered salvation
possible.

9

Singoalla

Father Henry, Erland's teacher, had travelled
much before he settled down as Prior in a monas-
tery deep in the forests of Smoland. His monks
said that his reputation as a theologian was great
in distant countries, and people knew that King
Magnus had bowed as low to this prior as to the
Archbishop of Upsala. Seldom did a year pass
without travellers from afar bringing him letters
written from Avignon by the Pope himself, or by the
most learned men of the University of Paris. High
dignities had been offered him, but he had in his
monastery all he aspired to in the world : time for
meditation and study, time to record on parchment
his hopes of a coming kingdom of God on earth.
He was fond of reading old Roman poems, though
their authors were heathens, and Virgil's verse,
'' Magntis ab integro seclorum nascitur ordo,"^
sounded to him with a prophetic ring. Books, too,
written in strange characters, he read — books of
which the other monks said, Grcrca stmt, non legun-
titr : they are Greek — we don't read them. Father
Henry had spent a couple of years in the Greek

^ " Mighty is the procession of ages that is coming to birth anew."

10

XTbe Castle in tbc jforest

city of the Ccesars ; hence the Greek Hterature in
his library.

A week seldom passed in which he did not
spend one evening at least, settled comfortably in
the roomiest arm-chair that the castle of Eko
afforded, with Lady Elfrida on one side and Bengt
on the other. The Knight was sparing of words,
but he often drank to the Father ; and the look
which accompanied the toast expressed reverence,
friendship, and comfort. Lady Elfrida asked ques-
tions— the monk answered her and told stories.
And how much he had to tell ! He had seen the
world that is, and knew, from books, the world
that was. He used no superfluous words, but what
word -pictures these stories of his were! Lady
Elfrida took care that Erland should be present
at such times. And the boy liked to be there,
and listened attentively. "Such deeds I shall live
to see; such, and many more," thought he.

Sometimes, however, it happened that his atten-
tion wandered. If it were a moonlit evening, he x'
could hardly pay attention to the Father's words.
He saw in his imagination the blood-red moon, rising

over the forest ; he saw her floating like a silver

II

SinQoalla

boat in the cool blue heaven; he saw her peeping
in through the bedroom window — he saw her even
drop a glittering silver sickle through the heavens
to his heathen forefather; he saw the girl Bil happy
with the boy Hjuke in the silvery boat which
carried them away; he saw moonbeams shimmer-
ing in the folds of Lady Elfrida's dress. Such
were the pictures which chased each other through
his mind. Was Erland at all akin to the moon?

Nor was it easier for him to follow the Father's
words when the waves of the lake were booming
around the island, and the wind was howling in the
pine forest. He heard voices which called him
forth, and had dim, hidden truths to tell him. Then
it came to pass that his imagination shaped forth a
harp large as the world, adorned with flashing stars
strunof across the endless blue of heaven — its strino-s
vibrating under sun-woven fingers, or touched by
gloomy masses of clouds, chased by the storm and
by blue-white lightning flashes. And from this
mighty harp his thoughts flew back to that broken
heathen harp at St. Sigfrid's feet. Why, he did not
know — he did not even think about it.

12

^bc (Taetlc in the forest

At the opening of this story Erland was seven-
teen years old, strong and handsome, skilled in
many sports, and well-read, often gay, but brooding
at times, quick to wrath, and quick to make atone-
ment for his hastiness ; a youth in some things, a
child in others.

Herr Gudmund Ulfsax was a widower, and had
a blue-eyed daughter named Helen. Bengt and
Gudmund thought that the young people were
destined for each other. Both were only children,
and the estates were so situate that to join them
seemed only right and easy. Lady Elfrida was of
the same opinion, and the fathers agreed that
Erland and Helen, in a few years, should become
husband and wife. As yet the children were shy in
each other's presence ; but love, like all else, has
its hour.

13

II.

SiNGOALLA.

NE summer's day Erland was returning
from the chase.

One of the hills in the forest was
surmounted by a young fir-tree, slender in girth,
but in height overtopping all the rest. It was
visible from the castle windows, towerino" over
the surrounding forest, and when it stood out
I against a red evening sky, it was as if it looked
out longingly into the world, and wished to be
far away in a land of palms.

Below the hill a brook purled over sand and
pebbles on its way to the lake. Farther on in the
forest the brook took its way, checked by moss-
grown stones and tree-roots, hundreds of years old ;
but here its banks widened into grassy sward, where
blue, white, and red flowers grew in beauty. Here
Erland often sat, enjoying the rustling of the firs
and the solitude, and here now he directed his steps

14

Singoalla

to drink of the fresh water of the brook. The
two hounds, Kack and Grip, accompanied him.

When he reached the top of the hill, he stopped
astonished, for he beheld a strange sight. A girl
was sitting by the brook. He did not see her face,
for she did not look towards him, but he saw her
black hair flowing over her bare shoulders, and a
dark dress trimmed with many-coloured ribbons.
The girl dipped her naked feet into the brook,
seemingly enjoying the coolness of the water, and
perhaps amused by the bubbles which her feet
made. She began to sing in a clear, melodious
voice, which rang through the wood.

Who was she ? She certainly did not belong to
the country-side, as was clear from her bearing,
dress, and her songs, which sounded so unlike the
ditties of the girls of the neighbourhood, when they
were looking for their strayed cattle. Who was she,
then ? A fairy or an enchanted princess ? Silent
and wondering, Erland stood on the hill, and felt
in his heart something secret, inexplicable, eerie,
and yet alluring!

But Kack and Grip fixed fierce eyes on the

girl, growling angrily. And while Erland stood

15

Singoalla

watching her, absorbed in thought, Grip rushed
down the hill as if he meant to tear her in pieces.

Then Erland, seeing her danger, called the dog
back. But before he called, the girl turned quickly
and rose, and just as the dog was driving his teeth
into her dress, she thrust a dagger into his neck.
Grip fell at her feet with a piece of the dress
between his teeth.

Erland's eyes flashed with anger as he saw
the death of his faithful dog, and walking forward
with quick steps he shouted, " Who are you who
have dared to do this ?"

But the girl looked with large, black, sparkling
eyes at the fair, well-born lad; her brown cheeks
turned to a deep crimson, her lips quivered, and
she brandished the dagger, dripping with blood,
till the red pearl bracelets round her naked arms
rattled.

"Perhaps you will kill mc now?" she cried
passionately with a foreign accent. And she lifted
the dagger in defence against the other dog, which
was about to rush at her.

Erland ordered Rack to lie down, and as the

dog did not at once obey his master's voice, he

i6

Singoalla

gave him a blow with his bow, and he slunk back
howling.

The eyes of the girl and youth met defiantly;
but somehow the girl smiled.

" I am not afraid of you," she said, and so threw
the dagger that it whizzed through the air, and
lodged with the point in a tree,

Erland's anger changed to wonder and curiosity.

" You are a strange girl," he said; "but shame
to me if I cannot meet a girl in a man's game."

He unsheathed his hunting-knife and threw it
at the same tree. The knife struck into the tree
beside the dagger, but so deeply that half of the
blade was hidden in the bark. He went up to the
tree, tore out both knives, washed hers in the
brook, and returned it to her.

"You are a pretty girl," he said, "but a very
strange one. . . . Would you," he asked moodily,
"like me to kill the other dog too ? "

" No," answered the girl, as she replaced the
dagger in the sheath she carried in a belt; "the
dog is guiltless. He and his like do as their masters
wish. But you must be cruel and wicked."

And she called Kack, who, at a sign from his

17 2

Sincjoalla

master, approached her creeping. The girl caressed
his rough head.

"Forgive me," said Erland; " you are right. I
am cruel and wicked, but do not think that I set
the dog on you. I did not mean any harm to
you."

" I believe you." She looked with a keener
glance into Erland's face. " Do you live in this
neighbourhood ? "

"Yes."

" Farewell," said the girl. " We shall not meet
again." She was just about to hurry into the
forest when Erland, as if awaking from a dream,
lifted his head and exclaimed,

" No, no; stay !" in such a voice that the strange
girl turned round.

"Tell me what your name is," said he, seizing
her hand.

" You ask too much."

"No, I care not for your name, if you only tell
me whence you come, and why we shall never
more see each other."

" My name is Singoalla, I come from afar, and

stay not in any place."

i8

Singoalla

" And we shall never meet again ? "

" What do you care about me ? To-morrow you
will have fororotten me,"

"No, I shall never forget you."

Instead of answering, Singoalla bent down,
picked up a red flower, threw it into the brook,
and ran into the forest.

Erland stood alone. His eyes followed the
girl as she disappeared. Thus he stood for a
while, silent, motionless, dreaming. At last he
was aroused by Rack's howling. The dog looked
at his master uneasily, for he did not know him
in that mood. Erland threw his bow over his
shoulder and went slowly up the hill.

19

III.

Longing.

HE following day Erland returned to the
hill by the brook. He carried his bow in
his hand, and Kack accompanied him, but
he was not thinking of hunting. He thought of
Singoalla, the brown girl. He had dreamed of
Singoalla in the night — dreamed that she seized
his hand and pressed it, that he pressed hers in
return, that they looked intently into each other's
eyes, and in a strange way felt happy. Such a
dream Erland had never had before ; most of his
dreams were of fights with the shaggy things of
the forest, of tournaments, and Saracen turbans
cleft in twain.

He came to the brook, but Singoalla was not
there. Perhaps she will come, thought he, and he
sat down on the grass where the girl had sat before,
and listened lono- to the murmur of the brook. But
Singoalla did not come. Then it was as if the brook

20

Xonaing

had whispered to him: "Seek in the forest, whence
I come." Erland arose and followed the brook into
the forest. He wandered in the shade of the spruce
trees, climbed over boulders and crags, and came
to a place cleared by the wood-cutter's axe, but with
no house on it. Only a hut of twigs, such as char-
coal-burners build, stood there beside the remains
of a charcoal-kiln: heather, toadstools, and ferns
grew all round it. Stakes had been fixed in the
ground. While he was wondering what they had
been used for, Erasmus the huntsman came wander-
ing up the glade, and told him that a strange people,
men, women, and children, with brown complexion
and black hair and eyes, curiously attired and talking
an outlandish speech, with horses, waggons, and
much baggage, had pitched their tents on the
clearing, stayed there for one day, and then wandered
northwards. Erasmus had no more to tell, but he
showed the ruts of their waggons winding along
where the trees stood apart.- And as Erland looked
at the ruts and thought that Singoalla must be of
these people, he found on the ground a red pearl,
like those about the crirl's arms and ankles. That
pearl he picked up and hid near his heart, which

21

Stnooalla

whispered, "She has gone: you will never see her
again." Erasmus, who saw that Erland brooded,
said, " I saw just now a man bring the collar of
Grip to Eko. Grip lies in the forest, eaten by-
wolves. Are you sad for the loss of your good
hound ?"

It was as Erasmus had said. The wolves had
found during the night the body of Grip near the
brook, had dragged it far from there into the
forest, and eaten with delight the flesh of their
old enemy.

Erland answered Erasmus that there were many
good hounds, but few so good as Grip. He said
farewell to Erasmus, who wandered away, and he
himself went back to the castle.

Daily he returned to the hill by the brook. Did
he think that Singoalla would come back ? Sum-
mer, however, passed away; the autumn came; red,
blue, and white flowers by the brook faded like
Erland's wild temper; the oaks, which stood among
the spruce trees, turned yellow and strewed their
acorns on the earth; the days grew shorter and
the sky more cloudy; the birds of passage had
left for the south; the rain fell in showers; the

22

XoiiGina

brook overflowed the spot where Singoalla once
sat. Erland had sat there often, too.

But even when the hill was covered with snow,
Erland, accompanied by Kack, came to the brook;
yet not so often as before. He did not hope to
find Singoalla, but he loved the place, and he sang
and listened to the echo, for "Singoalla" was his
sonsf.

Bengt marvelled at the change in his son, and
often asked if all the wolves and foxes were dead,
and all the birds gone to other lands, for Erland's
hunting was now always fruitless. " My herdsmen,
however," he would add, "say otherwise, for they
often bring me news that rough-coated thieves have
thinned out my herds." To all this Erland answered
little. But Lady Elfrida rejoiced at her son's
demeanour, which was now gentler than before.
Yet sometimes she fancied he was unhappy, and
asked him if anything troubled him. But Erland
answered " No," and gazed through the banqueting-
hall window towards the tall fir on the hill.

During the winter Father Henry found Erland
a more diligent pupil. Every day he went to the
monastery. The janitor, Brother John, who knew

23

SiiiGoalla

his way of ringing, put his tonsured head through
the spying-hatch in the gate, saluted him, and
opened to him. Through a vaulted passage between
the cells of the monks Erland passed to the library,
where the Prior generally sat. It was a room with
vaulted roof and lofty arched windows set with
small leaded panes, so sun-burnt that the birches
standing outside, waving in the wind, looked like
green shadows. The walls were covered with book-
cases ornamented with carving. The books, bound
in calf, stood with chain and lock attached to the
wall. Of these locks the Prior kept the key, to
guard these priceless works against thievish hands,
and to prevent the monks taking down books and
reading them without his knowledge. " For," said
he, "many of these works were written by heathen
Romans, and are dangerous for unskilled minds."

The pupil advanced day by day in favour with
his master. It happened one winter's evening,
when Erland was sitting at his side in the library,
that the Prior shut the volume of patristic theology
which he had been reading, and with a meaning-
look went to the bookcase, loosed another book

from its chain and put it before his pupil.

24

Xonaing

"He is no longer a child," said the Prior to
himself; "his understanding is ripening perceptibly;
I need not fear to let him read this book under
my guidance. It is dangerous ; but the danger
is such as awaits his age, and can be lessened by
an old friend."

It was Ovid's Metamorphoses. The Prior care-
fully chose the pieces he thought suitable. So
they read of the love of Hero and Leander, and
Erland gave to Hero the features of Singoalla.
They read of the love of Pyramus and Thisbe,
and Erland gave to Thisbe Singoalla's eyes, colour,
and red lips.

He read of the tragical end of their love — no,
of their fate — and the tale brought the tears to
his eyes.

Like Lady Elfrida, Father Henry rejoiced at

the change in him. Often he sat with the boy's

hands in his, and told him something drawn from

the rich experience of his life. Thought often

clouded his forehead, and his eyes were fixed

searchingly on Erland. It was as if he wished to

tell him something, but hesitated to do so. Great

thoughts stirred the Father's soul, but he doubted

25

Singoalla

if Erland's mind was fit soil for the seed he wished
to sow.

One winter's evening, however, near spring, it
happened that, after master and pupil had studied
together, the old man put his hands on the youth's
shoulders, and his eyes gleamed. In a half
whisper, which sounded solemn and mysterious in
the faintly-lighted vault, he spoke of the dominion
of the soul over the body, of the power of the
invisible word over strength of body and pride
of mind, over princes and mighty men, over the
armies of the world, though they were as innumer-
able as the sands of the sea. A mighty edifice is
being built with its foundation on earth, and its
top in heaven, said he, and when it is finished, the
earth will no longer be earth, but a heaven below,
a mirror of the heaven above. The foundation is
laid, the pillars are being raised, some already
tower to the sky ; but evil giants, who have a
foreboding that this edifice will become a prison
where they will be bound with unbreakable chains
for all eternity, have seized hold of the pillars to
overthrow them. But still the work shall be made

ready, for the power of good is greater than that

26

Olonoino

of evil, inasmuch as God is greater than the devil.
But in this life God lives only in pure human hearts,
and every heart which opens to Him strengthens
His power in this life. "Will you," said the old
man, "become God's ally? Will you carry your
stone to this edifice ? It is not easy, for it requires
more than man's strength, more than man's courage.
It demands the renunciation of all earthly things.
Have you strength enough to sacrifice the rose of
life to God, and keep the thorns of life only for
yourself ? More I cannot say now ! "

So spoke Father Henry, and Erland, who
maybe did not quite understand his words, but
felt them in his heart, said he wished to be God's
helper, and expressed his willingness to be God's
ally. So the old man put his hand on Erland's
head and blessed him.

27

V

IV.

I The Strangers from the Land of Egypt.

PRING has come : the ice-floes which
drifted on the lake have melted before
the rays of the sun, the trees are budding,
and the forest is exhaling fragrance 1

Do you see, Erland, the flocks of birds which
soar high in the air ? They are returning from
the south. Do you feel the fresh breaths of air
that sport through the windows of the great hall ?
They are bringing greetings from distant countries!
Will not she too return, she whose memory winter
has not wrapped in the snow of oblivion ? Hark !
From the forest sound the voices of men, the
tramp of horses, the creak of waggons, and the
cracking of whips. It is as if a great pro-
cession were approaching. From out the forest
there comes a motley crowd: men in long cloaks;
women in many -coloured raiment ; half- naked
children clamouring, laughing, and crying ; horses,

28

Zl)c StrauQcre from tbc Xanb of leg^pt

waggons, dogs ! They approach the castle. All
hurry to the windows ; the servants, at work in
the court, pause and look with astonishment at
the new-comers ; the warder looks hesitatingly at
the Knight, who beckons to him to let down the
drawbridge. The strangers pass over it, but leave
their horses and waggons on the other side. They
group themselves in a semicircle. The men draw
forth from their cloaks pipes and stringed instru-
ments ; the young girls, black-eyed and raven-
haired, with pearls round their bare arms, their
dark or red gowns bedizened with tinsel and gay
ribbons, step forth from the crowd of women. The
pipes and the stringed instruments sound, and the
girls dance strange dances. Nimble like the
sparks over a crackling flame, light like the wind
on green fields, they whirl round one another to
shrill music, till it stops and the girls hurry back
to where the older women are gathered. Then
Father Henry appears on the drawbridge ; he
comes from the monastery where the strangers
had been a short while ago, and one of them, a
tall man, more richly clad than the others, goes
to meet him, and makes a low obeisance. The

29

SiuGoalla

Father beckons him to follow. They approach
the steps of the castle, where Bengt had descended
in order to learn who the strangers were and what
they wanted.

The tall man bows humbly to the lord of Eko,
and puts both his hands on his forehead. His
long hair is black, blue-black the crisp beard around
his lips ; dark, proud, and yet shy is the glance
he fixes on the Knight.

He is silent, but Father Henry speaks for
him :

" These people ask for your favour, noble sir,
and for leave to pitch their tents in your forest,
for they intend to stay here a few days and then
resume their wandering. For, you must know,
noble sir, that these men belong to a people to
whom God denies peace and quiet, and dooms to
wander, generation after generation, from country
to country. Marvellous is their fate and a thing
to ponder, for it bears witness of God's almightiness
and stern righteousness, and of the everlasting
verity of our holy religion.

"The ancestors of this wandering people lived,

as this man — a chief among them — has told me,

30

Zbc Strangers trom tbc Xan^ of JBQWt

more than one thousand three hundred and forty
years ago in the land of Egypt. They were a
tribe of note of the hneage of Ishmael, the son of
Abraham and Hagar, and dwelled settled in a
fruitful country not yielding to Goshen in fertility.
" One day there came to their dwellings a
wanderer, accompanied by a woman with a young
babe in her arms. For himself and his family the
wanderer asked for shelter from the night and
from the storm. Each in turn refused, referring
him one to the other. But the strangers whom
they turned away from their thresholds were St.
Joseph, Mary the Queen of Heaven, and the
Saviour of the world. And in punishment for this
sin God doomed them and their children to wander
homeless for two thousand years without other
hope for their lives than the pity of strangers.
More than half of their toilsome journey is now
accomplished, but still twenty-three generations,
reckoning three to a century, will die on the
journey before they reach the goal for which they
long : their own country and reconciliation with
God. Noble sir, these people, who crave your
hospitality for a few days, have passed through

31

Singoalla

many countries, and have, not without success,
entreated many princes for the same favour. They
ought to be regarded as penitent pilgrims ; derided,
despised, expelled, and persecuted in many places —
for the chalice of suffering is put into their hand
— yet, nevertheless, they have been granted letters
of safe-conduct from the Emperor, and have more-
over had the privilege of appearing before our
Holy Father in Rome. ..."

At these words the chief took out of his coat-
pocket a parchment tied round with many ribbons,
unrolled and handed it with another bow to Bengft.

The Knight would have had some difficulty in
reading the words which were written on the parch-
ment, but from the large wax-seal bearing the arms
of the Holy Roman Empire, that was attached
to it, he understood that this was the safe-conduct
of which the Father had spoken. The Knight
reverently eyed the parchment, returned it to the
chief, and, stopping the Father who was about to
continue his speech, said :

" Most remarkable is that which I have now
heard about you, and it seems to me that I should
commit a sin, not unlike that for which you your-

32

Zbc Strangere from tbc Xa^^ of lEcj^Pt

selves are bearing the punishment, if I refused to let
you stay for a few days on my lands. Meat and
drink you shall not lack during that time; and as for
you, the chief, and your nearest kindred, I invite
you to lodge beneath my roof."

The chief returned thanks in humble words, but
declared that a vow, inherited from his forefathers,
compelled him as well as his people never to seek
a night's rest in a house, be it of stone or timber,
till their time of punishment should expire.
Furthermore, as a reason for his asking for a few
days' hospitality, he informed the Knight that he
had arranged to meet here a tribe of his people
which had for some time been separated from him
in order to visit other places, and was now about
to rejoin him.

After other remarks had been exchanged

between Bengt and the chief of the wandering

people, the strange troop marched off to the field

in the forest where they had once before pitched

their tents, and here Bengt had meat and drink

brought in abundance, so that for a whole week

they might be well provided for.

But among the girls with black curly hair who

33 3

Sinaoalla

had danced in the court Erland had discovered
Singoalla. It was she who led the dance, for she
was the chief's daughter, and of all the girls the
most beautiful.

The Father spent the evening in the castle in
order to talk to Bengt about their strange guests,
and communicate to him some other matters which
he had gathered from the chief, when the latter had
called on him in the monastery, and asked for his
intercession with the Knight.

34

V.

Erland and Singoalla.

RLAND had at first listened to the Father's
account, which struck him as marvellous,
and which touched him nearly as con-
cerning the people to whom Singoalla belonged.
But restlessness drove him out of the hall, and
he wandered from room to room in the castle,
hurrying up the stairs to the topmost chamber
of the tower, whence he looked out over the
lake and forest and listened to the tinkling of the
bells on the horses of the strange people. He
ran down the stairs to the castle garden, which,
well kept but small and surrounded by stone
walls, lay on the south side of the castle, where
the evening sun shone goldenly over Lady
Elfrida's flowers and pot-herbs. Nor did he
linger there, but hurried to the maidens' bower,
whither he seldom went. Here Lady Elfrida kept
in a well-waxed press her son's holiday clothes,

35

Sinooalla

and here there was a mirror of polished steel on
which the maidens were fond of looking. Erland
opened the press, took out the garments of costly
foreign stuff with elegant silver clasps, and arrayed
himself He combed his light brown hair till
it fell in long wavy curls over his shoulders.
None but he knew why he took all this trouble.
When he had finished he flung his bow over his
shoulder, called Kack, saddled his horse and rode
away over the drawbridge into the forest. The
glances of Lady Elfrida and her maidens followed
him, for he looked comely on his good horse, with
its fine trappings. But Lady Elfrida entered the
hall and told the Knight that Erland had ridden
away and could hardly be expected home before
the morrow. Doubtless he had taken the road to
Ulfosa, the estate of Gudmund Ulfsax, or why
should .he have so dressed himself if not for
Helen, his destined bride ?

But of Helen Ulfsax Erland was not think-
ing at all, though a girl of fairer face and clearer
blue eyes there was not in all Virdaland. The
face which Erland only remembered was brown;
the eyes whose light warmed his soul were dark,

36

lErlanb ant) Sinooalla

and the name of the girl was not Helen but
Singoalla.

Lady Elfrida's guessing came to nought,
for soon after sunset Erland was seen riding back
again over the drawbridge. He had been strolling
in the forest near the clearing, and had watched
from between the trees the strange people busied
in pitching their tents, feeding their horses, and
cookinof their food. He had seen and heard the
children's noisy play round the fires. But he
had not ridden there. The thougfht of Sinoroalla
had lured him, but now he felt shy of seeing her.
So, after much hesitation and with purpose unful-
filled, he turned homewards. But no such doubt
withheld Kack, and he ran into the camp, perhaps in
the hope of meeting his kind among the strange
folk, or drawn by the smell of the cooking-fires.
When Erland sprang from the saddle in the castle-
yard, Kack came out of the forest and jumped up
to his master as if he had brought a greeting to
him. Perhaps he had, for around his shaggy neck
hung a wreath of wild flowers. Erland saw it, and
his thoughts lit up his eyes. " Could Singoalla
have sent it?" He loosed it from Rack's neck

37

SiuGoalla

and put it under his pillow, for surely his dreams
must be of her who had wreathed the flowers !

On the following morning Erland again put on
holiday attire, buckled round his doublet a fine
belt carrying his hunting-knife, and went through
the woods — to the hill by the brook. It was
beautiful and lonely there. The spruces were
whispering, the brook was murmuring, anemones
and violets were peeping out of the grass. Erland
seated himself in the old place by the edge of the
brook; Kack put his head on his lap. Suddenly
on the other bank — as if they had planned it —
came Sino-oalla. The wind fluttered in the folds
of her short gown, her step was light and un-
checked by the sight of Erland in his finery, but
her smile was kindly and she nodded cheerfully,
lifted each foot to take off her shoes, and then
waded across the brook straight to Erland. The
brook was shallow, and a few silvery pearls
splashed from it to the red pearls round the girl's
ankles. Erland felt no shyness, but gladness only —
gladness unspoiled by ceremony. He did not rise
and salute Singoalla, as other girls he knew. But
his heart smiled in his eyes as Singoalla reached

38

z,^®-

'.y-;^,.^»^/ • , -W.'^ *a^- ■ x-ia^-X.

iJ-.-V/-.i^l-A.'''»^^V- a -->^-r.

ErlanC) anD Silicon I la.

Sinxoa//a.]

[Face p. 38.

lerlan^ ant) Sinooalla

the bank, put her hands on his shoulders, and
said :

" I did not prophesy aright. We meet again.
Your father is good to mine, so we, too, will be
friends ! "

" Yes. Singoalla, I have been longing for you
ever since we saw each other here the first time.
I have often dreamed of you, and if dreams speak
truth, you are not angry with me ! "

" No," answered Singoalla, seating herself on the
bank beside Erland; "when I left you I was angry
no more. I thought you the handsomest boy
I had ever seen ; even when angry you were not
ugrlv. In all our folk there is not one so handsome
as you. Assim, who wants me for his wife, is as
nought to you."

" Who is Assim } "

'' He is the son of him who was chief before my
father. ..."

" And Assim wants you to be his wife ? "

" Yes ; but no more of Assim. You said you
dreamed of me. I dreamed that I should find you
here, and so I came. I dream more truly than I
tell fortunes, which angers me, for to tell fortunes

39

Singoalla

aright is an honour to us women. But the art of
fortune-telling is not for the young. Let me see the
lines of your hand . . . no, I will not . . . If you
were doomed to be unhappy, it would grieve me.
Oh, what hair you have ! " — Singoalla passed her
hand through Erland's curls — "not black like mine
and my kinsmen's."

Her talk shifted from one thing to another. She
spoke of the wanderings of her people, and how glad
she was when her father and his men agreed that
the meeting-place between the scattered bands
should be on the lands of Erland's father. As it
happened, it was Assim who had proposed this in
the men's council, and he had done it at a hint from
Singoalla. He never thought that Singoalla wished
this for Erland's sake, or he would not have
agreed to her plan. And while she was saying this,
she caressed Kack, now friendly, for in the camp on
the night before he had shared Singoalla's supper,
and it was she who had wreathed his neck with the
garland. Kack little knew what it meant !

Erland then showed Singoalla a red pearl and a
faded flower ; one, he said, he had found in the
clearing where her people had pitched their tents ;

40

Ierlan^ an^ Sincjoalla

the other he had taken from the brook, which had
received it from Singoalla herself.

The girl snatched away the faded flower and
threw it once more into the brook.

" I will give you fresh flowers," she said ; " we
will see who can gather the most."

Erland agreed, and they vied with each other in
gathering flowers on the banks of the brook. Then
they compared them to see who had gathered most,
and it happened that Erland had gathered most, for
he had pulled off handfuls without choice, though
Singoalla's were prettier.

They sat down on the slope of the hill to sort
the flowers and bind them into nosegays with grass.
Erland did this badly and slowly, but Singoalla had
good taste in arranging flowers, and their different
colours contrasted finely. Nobody had taught her
the art, but she knew it all the same. When the
posies were ready, Erland and Singoalla exchanged
them, and the girl liked that of Erland, though it
was uneven, loose, and ill-made. At last she said
that she must return to the camp, or her father,
Assim, and the women would be wondering where
she was and search for her, and this she did not wish.

41

Singoalla

Then Erland said :

" Go now, Singoalla ; but come here every day,
that I may see you."

Singoalla pondered a while, and said :

"Yes, we will meet every day; but it will be
best to meet here after the sun has set. There is a
custom amongst us for young girls to wander alone
for a while of an evening, for so they get the spirit
of divination. I shall say to my father to-morrow
evening, ' I will go into the forest and learn how
to tell the future.' Then he will answer, 'Go . . . ,'
and I shall steal away hither. The twilight is good,
because if Assim or the women are in the neigh-
bourhood they will not see us. Assim is fond of
following my footsteps."

" Is Assim bie and strono- ? " asked Erland.

"Yes, he is bigger than you, and has a beard,

and is the nimblest of our young men. He is

usually good-tempered, but is easily angered ; and

when in anger all shun him. Blood has more than

once dripped from his knife."

" If Assim comes here, I will teach him to shun

following you. Look at my arms, Singoalla," said

Erland, turning up his sleeves ; " I am only seven-

42

lErlan^ an^ Sinooalla

teen, but would not my hug be too much for Assim?
Let him come ! I will fell him and set my foot
upon him ! "

" You shall not. Why do you speak so harshly
of Assim ? What harm has he done you ? If you
threaten thus, I will never come here again."

" I cannot endure him, and I hope he will not
come here while we are together. The place is
lonely and the forest large : why should he come
here ? I promise you, Singoalla, I will not fight
with him, or even say an angry word to him, unless
he provokes me. Are you content now, and will
you promise me to come to-morrow when the sun
has set behind the rocks which border the lake ? "

"Oh, I promise, for you know not how I love to
look on you. To-night you will come and see the
camp of our people, will you not ? My father
expects the Knight's son to come and see him, be it
from kindness or curiosity."

' ' I shall come, but it is best to meet you alone,
Singoalla."

Singoalla held out her hands to Erland and said,

"Farewell till to-morrow." They held their hands

for a long time, and gazed delightedly into each

43

SinQoalla

other's eyes. But at last, exclaimincr "To-morrow!
Yes, to-morrow!" they nodded gaily and hurried
apart. But before Erland had reached the top of
the hill and Singoalla disappeared in the forest,
both turned round and nodded once more in sign
of farewell and future tryst.

44

VI.

In the Twilight by the Forest Brook.

HE sun was sinking behind the rocks which

rim the lake; the tops of the trees were

bathed in the sunset's glow; the birds

were settling to rest; the monastery bell was calling

the monks to Vespers and chiming over the fields,

when Erland left the castle for his tryst.

So he met Singoalla every evening under the
tall spruce on the hilltop when the twilight stole
between the trees. They spoke much in the be-
ginning, and played like children on the green bank.
" There is no lass living as pretty as you," said
Erland to Singoalla. She answered joyously, " Do
you think so ? Before I came I looked into a
spring to see if you might think me fair."

But in a while both grew silent and looked each
other in the eyes rather than talked, and they could
do so in spite of the twilight, for they sat close
and wound their arms round one another's necks.

45

SinGoalla

When their glances met, \\p stole to lip, and
closed in long kisses which slaked and kindled
desire.

Every time that Erland wandered to the hill,
there rang' in his heart a song- that never reached
his lips :

"Ah ! sweet it is to meet one's Love I
But sweetest far when twilights rove

O'er field and forest.
Out yonder stands the hill where trees
Whisper so soft in evening's breeze.

Oh, heart, thou soarest !

Art there, Singoalla ? Though these eyes cannot see thee,
Whence else can that fragrant perfume come, I prithee?
The forest lies silent, by man 'tis unridden.
Yet it echoes ' Singoalla,' that name comes unbidden.

Is that the dark form of fir-tree low bending ?
Or rose-tree spread out to the wind's gentle tending?
My heart says, ' Singoalla here waits love's caressing,'
So I press on, to press near, with love past expressing I

Ah ! sweet it is to meet one's Love !
But sweeter far when twilights rove
O'er field and forest."

• •••••

The strange folk remained in the forest-clearing
longer than their chief had at first intended, for the

46

3n the ITwnlicjbt b^ tbe Jforcst IBvooh

band for which they waited delayed coming. But
Erland did not think of separation, neither did
Singoalla. It seemed to them as if they would
always be together.

Eight days passed; and each day Singoalla had
said to her father, " I will go and learn from solitude
the visions of the future," and he had answered,
"Go!" She had wandered in the forest to baffle
Assim and lead him astray. Eight days had Erland
and Singoalla met, and none but faithful Kack knew
it, for a hunter passed that way rarely, least of
all in the twilight, and the women of the strange
folk used to draw water and bathe their children
where the brook flowed nearer the clearinor.

But Sino-oalla changed more and more during-
those days. She trembled when she was about to
steal to the trysting-place, but still she could not
help going, for her heart ached when she did not
see the Knight's son. She dreamed of him by
night, and thought of him by day, and she was
never happy except when she felt the boy's arms
about her. And yet she felt shy, she hardly knew
why, and her soul raised mute cries of pain when he
approached. So much was she stirred by fear and

47

Singoalla

longing, that sighs almost choked her voice when
they sat together. She could no longer look into
Erland's eyes, for it seemed as if they burned hers;
and she dropped her eyes under their long lashes
to the murmuring waters of the brook, or she raised
them to the silently gliding stars, while Erland
looked and looked at her. And yet, without being
able to meet it, she felt his gaze like a sweet pain
deep in her heart.

One night when they were sitting with her cheek
pressed to his, his curls mingling with hers, Erland
said to her:

" Sing one of the songs of your people, Singo-
alla."

But Singoalla said in a whisper :

" I can no longer sing."

" But I heard you singing when we saw each
other first, and Grip wanted to bite you and I was
harsh with you. Why not sing now? Are you sad?"

"Yes."

" Why ? Have I offended you ? "

"You! No, Erland! I don't know why I am
sad. . . . Perhaps it is because we shall part some
day. ..."

48

3n the ITwiliGbt b^ tbc Jforcst 'Bvooh

" Part !" exclaimed Erland, turning pale. "Then
will you not always stay here ? "

" I should like to be always with you, but I must
follow my father. Yes, when I think of it . . . you
see, I have not thought of it before . . . but now I
think I shall die when I part from you. I shall
wander away, farther and farther from you, Erland.
When you come here in the evening, no Singoalla
will meet you. She will long to do so, and will die
of her longing. Perhaps you may weep, Erland,
and call my name, but I shall not be able to
come. . . ."

Singoalla's eyes filled with tears, and her bosom
heaved with sobs.

Erland was pale and silent. He had not thought
of parting. He let go Singoalla's hand, and tears
rose to his eyes, for the mystical tie of love had so
united their hearts that joy or sorrow and every
pulse-beat came to both alike. But when Singoalla
saw Erland's eyes shine with tears, she tried to
smile to make him happy again, and said :

"Do not be sad! When Singoalla goes away,
you will soon forget her and be happy again."

"Forget you!" said Erland, rising. "No, I

49 4

Sinooalla

/ shall never forget you. I will never part from you,

I will follow you wherever you go."

"Will you?" cried Singoalla, and her eyes
shone. "Will you leave your father and mother,
the beautiful castle, and all you love, to follow me?"

"Yes," replied the boy.

"Then we can be husband and wife. You shall
be my master, and I your slave. I will carry your
burdens in our wanderinors. At nisfht I will cool
your feet with water. When we halt I will roast
your game, hand your cup when you are thirsty,
sing to you when you are sad, and share all you
suffer, ay, gladly, for I shall know that you love

me ! "

"No," said Erland, "it shall not be so. I will
carry your burdens, for my shoulders are stronger
than yours; I will hunt the game and gather the
fruits which you love best. You shall not be my
slave. I hate the thought: it is unfair and evil.
But husband and wife we will be."

" Will you marry me now ? " said Singoalla. " I
will marry you after the custom of my people."

Sinofoalla drew out a sm.all slab of stone fastened
to a chain which she wore round her neck. On the

50

5n the Gwiluibt b\2 tbc jfoicst 36rooh.

Sin^oaiia. ]

[ Kacc p. 50.

V

Oi THf

UNIVERSir/

or

3n tbc ZTwiIigbt b\> tbc iforeet 'Bvoo\\

stone was engraved the crescent — the symbol of
Alako, the god of her people.

This stone she put into Erland's right hand, and
asked him if he would love her as his wife until
death did them part, and swear utter fidelity, the
least breach of which would give her the right to
take his life and by her prayers shut the gate of
heaven for ever against him. Erland answered,
" Yes." Then Sinoroalla took the stone in her rio-ht
hand, made the same vow, and said, as was the
custom of her people, that she would be her faithful
husband's faithful slave, and bear all anger from
him, but not unfaithfulness.

After this rite, Singoalla said, " Now you are my
husband, and I will obey you in everything," and
threw herself on her knees on the grass, raised her
hands to the new moon, and spoke words in a
tongue strange to Erland :

" He is mine, the only one I love! Know it,
all women, and look not at him, for he is mine and
scorns you all. Thanks to thee, good Alako in
heaven, for he is mine, the only one I love ! "

On any other occasion, Erland would have won-
dered that Singoalla called him her husband, for

51

Singoalla

they had exchanged no rings, had celebrated no
wedding according to custom, and no blessing
had been given them by a priest. But now he
thought not of these things. He felt his pledge
was easy to keep, for Singoalla was the one delight
of his heart; he thought only of kissing her, of
resting on her bosom, and following her to the end
of the world.

" Sit down beside me," said the girl, **and hear
a tale my father's people tell. They say that a
man and woman who have drunk each other's
blood will feel sorrow and joy, health and weari-
ness together and alike. That they can speak to
each other in thought though they be far apart,
and that their hearts are never asunder. Do you
believe this ? "

"I do not know, but I have heard that those
who would be friends for ever have minorled their
blood. Singoalla," said Erland, " I would drink
yours. And you ? "

" Ay, more eagerly than the traveller in the
desert desireth the water- springs."

Erland bared his left arm, for it is nearest the
heart. He drew his hunting-knife. Singoalla

52

3\\ tbe ^wiliGbt b^ the forest Brook

asked him to leave it to her. Erland asfreed, and
the girl drew her dagger, pricked her lover's arm
and caught with her lips the bead of his young
blood. Then she bared her left arm, and with
her dagger she drew a drop of her blood. Erland
kissod it away, kissed her arm again and again,
and drew it round his neck.

53

VII.

The Combat.

UT what shadow rises in the moonlieht
and with its silent presence threatens the
lovers ?
Singoalla gives a start, and cries " Assim !"
A hollow, painful laugh replies to her cry.
Erland jumped up and drew his hunting-knife
in readiness to attack the strano-er. Sincfoalla
caught hold of his armed hand but he broke away
from her. The dusky Assim saw the knife glim-
mering in the moonlight, threw off his cloak, made
a spring backwards, while his hand searched for
the dagger in his belt, and said :

" The dauo-hter of the chief and the son of the
lord of the castle ! Unhappy Singoalla ! The
women in the camp will scoff at you, and the men
despise you ! ..."

With these words he aimed the dagger at
Erland's head. But Assim's hand missed; wrath

54

Uf^:

ZTbc Combat

and the twilight put the skilful dagger-thrower to
shame. Erland rushed at him with uplifted knife.
Assim sprang nimbly backwards; he stretched out
his arms, his black eyes followed the threatening
weapon, his fingers opened to seize, in the nick
of time, Erland's uplifted hand, and his supple
body bent to avoid by an unexpected side-leap
a thrust, should his hand not ward it off.

" Assim is unarmed — mercy for Assim ! " cried
Singoalla, wildly passing her hands through her hair.

•* Are you unarmed ? " asked Erland, lowering
his hand.

" Yes," replied Assim, " but I am a man."

Erland threw his huntinor-knife on the erass in
order to fight weaponless, in the old Norse way,
a weaponless man.

Erland, the fair Norseman, was seventeen,
beardless, and not full-grown; Assim, the swarthy
descendant of the people of the Ganges, had been
wandering for twenty-six summers, not counting
the two that his mother had carried him on her
back. They rushed against each other, lifted their
arms, and pressed breast to breast ; their veins
swelled, their muscles strained from head to foot.

55

Stngoalla

But the issue is decided. Erland threw the
dark stranger to the ground ; his knee pressed
hard against the breast of his foe, and his hand
grasped his throat.

The girl rushed up to check the victor's wrath
and plead for pardon for the vanquished. Erland
listened, relaxed his grasp, and rose.

Assim rose also, with his eyes fixed on the
ground. He took his cloak, wrapped himself in
it, and stole away.

"Woe is me!" cried Singoalla. "He will tell
the whole story to the camp. My father will beat
me, the men despise me, and the women deride
me!

" No," said Erland, " that shall never happen !"

" No," repeated Singoalla, "for we are man and
wife."

" Come," said Erland, " I will follow you to the
camp and speak to your father. With me at your
side, Singoalla, you shall have nothing to fear."

" Husband !" said the girl.

" My wife!" said the boy, and lifting her in his
arms, he carried her across the brook, and went

\ with her into the forest.

Cl-tc Combat.

Singoalia,\

IFacc p, 56.

IW^

Of VHt

IVERSITY

VIII.

The Camp.

HE forest that surrounded the clearing
looked in the dark like an impenetrable
black wall on which rested the star-
strown canopy of heaven. In the open field
log-fires were burning with flickering flames,
and in their light shadows were seen moving,
while here and there a tent peeped out.
There was a swarm of men, women, children,
horses, and dogs ; a buzz of voices from deepest
bass to shrillest treble, singing, music of stringed
instruments, strident sound of pipes, beat of
drums, barking of dogs, the voices of men in
quiet talk, the high-pitched voices of women
quarrelling, the blows of a hammer falling on some
cracked copper kettle, or fashioning pieces of red-
hot iron into horse-shoes or arrow-heads — all
blent into an ear-piercing, confused, and con-
founding discord. With her hand in his — a mark

57

SiuGoalla

for curious looks and speeches in gibberish he did
not understand, amidst groups of men who were
eating, drinking, dicing, grinding knives and
swords ; amidst women who were stirring pots,
feeding children, mending clothes, chattering and
quarrelling ; amidst bare-limbed boys and half-
naked girls at play, or boxing each other's ears
and scratching one another, laughing and weeping;
amidst horses and carts, barrels, household utensils
and tools, and with Singoalla for his guide — Erland
moved on to the tent of the chief, the father of
Singoalla.

That same evening, whilst Singoalla was with
Erland, the long-awaited party had arrived, and
the chief had announced that the camp was to
break up on the morning of the second day after.
Hence the unwonted stir.

The chief's tent stood southward near the
edofe of the forest. Here neither the noise
nor the throng was so great. The oldest and
best men of the tribe were there assembled ;
there were also a few women conversing eagerly
in a low voice, when Erland and Singoalla ap-
proached. These women were Assim's mother,

58

Zbc Camp

sisters, and kindred; they all fixed their eyes on
the chief's daughter when she walked past them
at Eriand's side. The old woman, Assim's
mother, looked by the firelight, perhaps even by
daylight, an ugly witch. Her long crooked nose
seemed to have grown out of her face to spite her
eyes and hollow cheeks — ^just as, in an earthquake,
mountains arise and the land around them sinks.
Her red eyes flamed, and her lips, which, withered
and flabby, hung round her toothless jaws, grinned
loathsomely. The grim face of the crone showed
rage and lust for revenge, for Assim had already
told her about what had happened to him at the
brook; but it also showed wonder when she saw
the Knight's son at Singoalla's side.

At the sight of Erland the oldest of the tribe
rose and bowed. In the inlet to the tent stood
the chief himself, conversing with Assim. Both
seemed surprised at the arrival of the fair youth.
Assim slunk off, sending Singoalla a gloomy side-
glance. The chief laid his hands on his forehead
and bowed to Erland, but his half-downcast eyes
sent, between their black eyelashes, a flashing look
at his daughter.

59

SiUGoalla

The girl was pale, but she did not tremble, for
her hand rested in Erland's.

Erland said he wished to speak with the chief
without other witness than Singoalla. The chief
took him to his tent without a word.

What was said there no one knows, but after
half-an-hour Erland left the tent with calm on his
forehead, accompanied by Singoalla, who proudly
met the looks of Assim's mother and the other
women, and by the chief, whose face bore traces of
uneasy thoughts. When he had got a little way
into the forest, Erland shook hands with the chief,
kissed Singoalla, and said :

" I shall be ready at the appointed time."

60

IX.

The Breaking-up of the Camp.

IHAT is the matter with Erland ? He
is gloomy and speaks little," said
Lady Elfrida to her husband, the
good knight Bengt.

"He is suffering from loneliness," replied the
Knight, thoughtfully taking a draught from his cup,
and looking away to the blue mountain-tops, which
he could see through the narrow window, — "he is
suffering from loneliness, and no wonder. The
forest is no longer a fit place for him ; we must send
him this autumn to the king's court to learn courtly
manners and knightly training."

Lady Elfrida broke up the talk when it touched
that string, for it was with melancholy only that she
could think of the moment when young Erland
should leave his father and mother and go out into
the wide world.

Erland, however, was now sitting in the library

6i

SinGoalla

of the monastery beside Father Henry, reading by
the dim light from the lofty arched window the
Bucolics of Virgil ; and when the shepherd Meli-
boeus complained :

" Nos patrioE fines et dulda linquimus arva" ^

Erland's heart joined in the lament, and he listened
with wandering mind to the Father's exposition of
the poet, though this exposition was far more
spirited than the dry commentaries of Maurus
Servius, which were written in red on the margin
of the folio.

Erland had, before he went to the monastery,
roved through every corner of the castle, spoken a
kindly word to all the servants, and visited all the
playgrounds of his childhood, not forgetting the cliff
from which he used to dive into the lake. He had
visited these places to say farewell, and now, for the
first time, he felt how dear they were to him, though
he had many a time longed to leave them for the
wide world.

He thought of his father and his beloved
mother. He thought of the monk, his kindly

^ We are leaving our country's bounds and pleasant fields.

62

Zbc Bicahin(j«*up of tbe Catnp

teacher, who was sitting by his side, and he blessed
him silently for the knowledge of the art of writing-
he had gained through him. And thus Erland
consoled himself: " I shall soon gladden my parents'
heart with a letter telling them why I left them, that
I am well, and shall soon return a proud knight,
rich in the glory of doughty deeds."

For this purpose he had torn a leaf from a
breviary and hidden it about him ; on this leaf the
letter was to be written.

"You are tired now," said Father Henry, ob-
serving Erland's mind wandered; "well, we will
stop here . . . claudite jaiyi rivos, ptieri, sat prata
biberimty^

The Father shut the book and chained and
locked it again in the bookcase.

"Farewell," said Erland, pressing the Father's
hand. "My good teacher," he added, "I would
fain have your blessing to-night."

The monk laid his hand on Erland's head,
bestowed a benediction, and pressed him to his
bosom as he was wont.

Now a noise was heard outside the walls.
^ Lads, shut the sluices, the fields have drunk enough.

63

Sinooalla

Brother John, the janitor, opened the door a

Httle, and informed the Prior that a crowd of the

strange people, led by their chief, craved admission

in order to thank the Prior for his kindness and to

say farewell, for towards noon on the following day

they intended to break up the camp. They had

already been at Eko, and conveyed to the Knight

their grateful thanks for the hospitality he had

shown them.

The Father answered, "Let them come!"

In the meantime Erland put his cloak on his

shoulders and walked off.

Father Henry received the spokesmen of the

strange people in the refectory of the monastery.

All the monks were present. The chief stepped

forth, bowed, and spoke. The Father replied to

his words eloquently. Everything was done in a

grave and at the same time friendly manner. But

while the chief and the Father were speaking, the

eyes of the men wandered about the walls of

the room, and finally fastened on the glittering

vessels on the oak table, and with no less interest

on the images of the Blessed Virgin and Child

placed in the embrasures. But it was surely not

64

Z\K IBvcahim^xp of the Camp

devotion which gleamed in their eyes when they
saw the Qolden crown of the Oueen of Heaven and
the silver ornaments that in fair ogives and rosettes
surrounded it. Nor was it, surely, the heat of the
room that made one of the men, concealed behind
the others, undo the fastenings of the windows
nearest to the door ; for if heat had been the
cause, he would no doubt have opened it, which
he did not.

We leave the monastery and repair to the castle
to witness Erland's silent farewell. The evening
was far advanced, and the music of the monastery
bells, the signal for rest for the inhabitants of the
castle, had long ago chimed over the lake, and,
softly borne by the echo from the rocks, had sunk
to rest in the forest. Bengt and Elfrida were
already slumbering; the night-lamp in the sleeping-
chamber gave a dim light from its niche in the wall,
whence shadows fluttered vaguely round the curtains
of the alcove, where they gathered darker and
deeper. The door of the banqueting-hall stood
ajar; then it gently opened wide. Hidden by the
darkness, Erland paused on the threshold. He
wanted to steal up to the old folk, look on their

65 5

Singoalla

faces once more, and bid them farewell so sofdy
that they might feel it as in a dream. But the
sleep of old age is light, and they might awake.
Fear fought with the desire of his heart, and he
dared not enter. He leaned his forehead against
the door-post and listened to the breath of the dear
ones asleep. His cheek was pale, and his eyes
filled with tears. He returned by the way he came.
He hastened, for it seemed as if the statues of the
saints in the corridors and landings stirred and
stretched out their hands to him. He called Kack,
and waded the strait which separated the island from
the land, for the drawbridge, as was the custom at
night, was up ; then penetrated farther and farther
into the forest, accompanied by his faithful dog.
He wore his meanest clothes, and there was not a
coin in the pocket of his threadbare tunic. The
belt which girded his waist, and the hunting-
knife which hung from it, were the only things
of value that he took away with him from his
father's castle.

The chief of the strangers had said to Bengt
and the Prior that his people would march on the
following day at noon. He had perhaps a reason

66

Zbc BrcaluiiG^^up of tbc (Tamp

for saying so to them; but to Erland he had said:
" Come before midnight, or you will come too late."
Everything was already prepared for breaking
up the camp when Erland came to the clearing.
Singoalla had been expecting him anxiously. Now
she received him with a cry of joy, where, wrapped
up in a motley cloak, she was sitting in her father's
waggon on a bed of quilts and holding in the little
shaggy nags which were restlessly pawing the
ground. Behind stood a long row of waggons,
drawn by horses or oxen, and crammed with women,
children, and household stuff The married men
stood muffled in their cloaks beside the waesfons,
each one beside the goods left in his charge, or
near to his own. The young unmarried men
were drawn up in the rear, armed with spears, bows,
and knives. The abandoned fires lit up the picture.
Torch-bearers were stationed at the head of the

waggons.

The chief walked back from his own wacrg^ons,
which were the first, down to the last, in order to
make sure that all was right. He had strongly
urged his people to haste, his look was uneasy, and
he, usually so courteous, had scarcely taken the

67

Sinooalla

trouble to salute with a careless nod the new
member of his band, his daughter's husband and
the Knight's son, Erland hardly noticed this, for he
had eyes only for Singoalla. After the chief had
made his round, he gave the signal for departure
with a bell. The torches flickered between the
spruces, one waggon after another disappeared in
the black forest, and soon the clearing was empty.

The caravan advanced as fast as the darkness
and the rouo;h orround allowed. Sino-oalla had
alighted from her waggon and walked beside Erland,
who led her team by the reins. The stars twinkled
over the tops of the trees, and the lovers heard
a monotonous, melancholy, sweet song, sung by one
of those who followed. Between ruo-cred rocks and
through silent valleys the train moved on during
the short summer night.

Eastward the darkness was beginning to pale.
It was broken by a cold half-light, a softly-bright-
enino- dawn, in which the stars orrew dim and
disappeared.

Assim, who all night long had been on horse-
back, pulled up at his mother's waggon, covered
her up with a cloak as a protection against the

68

Zbc BrcaJ^ino^up of the Camp

morning chill and spoke words befitting a son, but
with half-averted face, as was his wont when speak-
ing to her. He felt degraded by being brought
into the world by her. She herself had taught him
this thought, and nourished it by speaking often and
often of her mud-dark blood, and of his father's
cleaner red blood ; of his grandfather's cleaner yet,
and his great-grandfather's, cleanest red of all red
blood. "You are of the blood of the holy immo-
lators, Assim. Your ancestors had golden hair and
eyes blue as the corn-flower. They were the peers
of the gods, and their shadow was fraught with
blessing. You are the only one of this wandering
band owning priestly and royal lineage. Your
father's orreat-s^randfather was fair-haired, I have
heard, and he remembered and understood all legends
in his ancient and holy language, in which he blessed
the brides, children, herds, and fires of our people.
Your grandfather was dark, but not so dark as your
father, and even when he was a hundred vears old
he could read and understand some of their old and
potent prayers. Your father, who was unwilling
and slow to learn, though ready and quick to com-
mand, remembered and understood only a few of

69

Singoalla

their words — more, however, than he has given you
for heritage. You are darker than your father.
You are a mule, Assim. Your mother's blood, the
blood of your grandmother and great-grandmother,
have made the descendant of the sun-horse a mule.
The sons of the sfods who gruided the wandering^
people out of Assaria had no daughters of gods to
make mothers of."

Thus she had spoken to her son ever since his
childhood. Assim sorrowed over his dark blood,
and blamed it for words and deeds of which he
was ashamed and repented. But of the clean red
there remained in his veins at least so much that it
could make itself felt and get the better of him in
the hours of dawn. Then there would come from
his lips words that astonished his tribe, and were
admired by Singoalla, but for which neither she nor
the others gave Assim honour, because they believed
that it was his ancestors who spoke through his
mouth.

Assim rode back to the rearguard. On Erland
and Singoalla he did not bestow a glance. With
rapture, mixed with a strange pain, he gazed east-
ward, towards the source of dawn, over which a

70

Zbc 1Bixn\\\m^i\^ of the Camp

pale red was spreading. It was quivering into an
ever-warming glow. The red from being pale grew
stronger and deeper till it turned to bright rose
edged with silver; then this was hidden with a
border of molten gold, and its glory awakened the
birds to exultant life, and spread a glitter of pearl
and rainbow over moss and grass and dew.

Assim had alio-hted from his horse. He grazed
with transfigured countenance at the glorious
radiance heraldinor the risino- sun, and said:

''Usas, Usas, daughter of heaven, hail to thee,
maid of Dawn ! The soldiers of light, thy champions,
burnish their weapons, yoke their red horses to thy
chariot, and open for thee the gate of heaven !
Seize thou the reins of the holy Universe and soar
with shining many-hued wheels the way by law pre-
scribed, lovely forerunner of glorious Stiryaf In
thee is the spirit of all things living. Thou awakest
to life all that hath breath. The powers of darkness
flee at sight of thee, Dawn, proud virgin, all-
conquering and joying in thy loveliness."

The edge of the sun now appeared, and, as
if in haste, the whole of the dazzling disc rose
from the horizon, and it then continued to rise

71

Stngoalla

more slowly. Assim lowered his forehead and
prayed :

" Sicrya, chase away the darkness which reigns
in my soul when all earth is bathing in thy bright-
ness ! Sun, glorious queen, ^ listen from thy fiash-
inor chariot on hig^h to the son of those who have
made thee a thousand songs, a thousand offerings !
Have pity on me ! I am a man shamed by
unanswered love. There is a poison in my blood.
Ruin and death seize the white man, whom she,
who hath bewitched me, adores! In the midst of
thy radiance there is night over my eyes. Stirya,
Queen, pity me ! Drop a sick man a leaf from
the wreath of healing flowers which adorns thy
shining brow ! Wilt thou not give me Singoalla's
heart ? If not, lay me among those who
have once beheld thy glory and behold it
no more ! "

''This is pleasant wandering," thought Erland,
and his breast swelled with a feeling that cried,
"Onward, on through the beautiful world!" He
looked at Singoalla ; she was like a newly-opened
rose, fresh with the morning dew.

1 Siirya, sun, is feminine in Sanscrit.
72

Cbc J6icnhiiui=iU> ot tbc Camp : ik^ijim.

Stngoalla.

Face p. 73.

^

'

Of T»

y^'.iro-

Zbc Brcakina^'up of the Camp

But morning had not chased away the cloud
that rested on the chief's brow. In his heart
also a feeling cried, "Onward!" but it was a
feeling of unrest. He hastened untiringly from
waggon to waggon, urging the men to haste.
Hour after hour passed, and the sun was already
high ; the horses were bathed in sweat, the women
were tired and grumbling. But the chief shouted,
"Onward!" The whips cracked over the tired
beasts, and the waggon-wheels creaked on their
worn axles.

" Chief," said Erland to Singoalla's father,
"will you not call a halt.'* Do you not see that
the beasts need rest, and fodder, and water ?
Look, yonder flows a brook. Let us water the
horses and oxen there ! "

"There," said the chief, pointing towards a
gently sloping height which was near, " there we
will rest."

He made no further answer, for at that moment
a horseman rode up to him at full speed. It was
Assim. He whispered something in the chief's
ear. The latter's face darkened still more, and
his eyes darted a look of alarm. He said not a

73

Singoalla

word, but beckoned some of the older men
to him, and eave certain commands in a low
voice.

Meanwhile the caravan advanced up the wooded
hill. The top was level. Here the beasts were
unharnessed, the waggons ranged and tied together
with ropes in a ring. Within this the people and
horses were now gathered. Weapons were got
out and arranged round a huge oak which stood
in the middle of a green lawn. Erland, wondering,
asked the chief what this meant.

" A people that has many enemies must be
watchful," said he, and so saying he went to a
secret council of the older men, while the younger
ones foddered the horses, and the women carried
water from a spring or cooked food.

The young girls of the tribe gathered round
Singoalla, They chatted merrily and looked with
furtive glances at the fair youth, whom they all
deemed handsome, and whom each, in her heart,
would have had for husband. "You are happy,
Singoalla," they said, and Singoalla nodded joy-
fully. But among the young girls who talked with
Singoalla there were none of Assim's sisters or

74

Zbc 1SrcafunG:*up of tbc Camp

kinswomen. They had gathered together apart,
and Assim's mother was in their midst.

In the meantime Erland examined the weapons
laid against the oak, bent the bows to try their
strength, feh the edge of the swords, and sang a
merry ballad.

"It is lucky we have him amongst us," said
an elderly man to the chief. "He shall be our
hostage."

"But he is a danger," said another; "it is an
enemy in our midst."

"A sleeping-draught!" whispered the chief

After the council was ended Assim went away
and spoke with his mother.

Then he again mounted his nag, and rode,
accompanied by three or four young fellows on
horseback, out of the camp down the slope of the
hill.

The women now brought food and laid it on
the grass. The band gathered in groups round
the dishes. The chief, his kin, and the oldest of
the band ate their meal under the oak. Erland
was invited to sit by the side of the chief; Singo-
alla took her seat beside Erland. A sister of

75

Singoalla

Assim's waited on the company. The chief made
needless excuse for the scantiness of the meal ;
but Erland broke his bread and shared it with
Singoalla.

But if the food was scanty, the same could not
be said of the drink. Assim's sister brought cups
for the company, and the three cups set before the
chief, Erland, and Singoalla, were of the finest
silver, skilfully wrought. Erland fancied he knew
them, and cried in astonishment :

" How like these goblets are to some which I
have seen in the monastery ! Yes, this one looks
to me wonderfully like the Sacred Chalice that
stands on the monastery altar, filled with Sacra-
mental wine."

Singoalla turned pale, and lowered her eyes,
for she guessed what had happened. But Assim's
sister filled the cups. All, except Singoalla, drank,
and Erland found the taste delicious.

Confused cries were now heard, and there was

a stir in the camp ! Assim had returned ; he

hastened to the chief and conversed with him in

a low tone.

"What is the matter.^" said Erland.

76

Z\K :©rcalung*up of the Camp

"We are about to hold a sham-fight," repHed
the chief coldly, ordering Singoalla off to the other
women. These, together with all the children, had
assembled apart on a spot inside the enclosure.
Singoalla walked away, her cheek pale, and her
eyes downcast.

The men crathered round the oak and armed
themselves. The chief led Erland into the crowd
and asked him to make his choice before the best
weapons were taken. But as Erland stooped
down, the chief gave a sign ; a rope was thrown
round him, and before he was aware of their
treachery, the rope was twisted round his arms
and legs so that he could neither struggle nor
move. His eyes flashed, his veins swelled; but
the chief said to the men, "Tie him up to the
oak ! "

When this was done all rushed to the waggons.
A cry was heard from the crowd of women ; it
came from Singoalla as soon as she was aware of
what had happened. She wished to hasten to
Erland, but Assim's mother cauorht hold of the
girl's hair with her skinny fingers, and hissed :
*' You have brought shame and disaster on us.

77

Singoalla

Woe to you, woe to you ! Your fair lover shall
die, he shall be torn to pieces, he shall be slain
by poison . . . yes, the poisoned draught, mixed
by my hands, is now raging in his bowels. Look
at his head sinking on his breast, his cheeks turning
yellow as the poisonous buttercup . . . the draught
is working already."

And while she thus spoke, the other women
seized hold of Singoalla's arms and the folds of
her gown, and showered curses on her.

There was another besides Singoalla to whom
the siofht of Erland's ill-treatment would have been
unbearable. That was Kack, but he had also
been provided for. While Erland was sitting at
meat, one of the men had enticed Kack from
the barricade into the forest, and there tied him
to a tree.

From without came shouts and the clash of

arms. A troop of foes was marching up the hill.

Already an arrow, the first messenger of the fight,

whizzed through the air. The women crowded

more closely together, pressed their children close

to their breasts, and sent frightened glances towards

the side of the enclosure where the men stood

78

£iiaii^ tic^ to tbc Crcc.

Sin^oalla. J

[ Face p. 78.

If

/ ^ OF TH.

CA!.jroRlii

^be Brcahincj^up of tbc (Tamp

awaiting the attack with bows bent and spears
ready.

" No mercy on the sacrilegious villains ! " rang
out a voice; " cut them all down ! "

It was Father Henry addressing a troop of
Bengt's people who, armed with axe, bow, and
spear, had marched out in pursuit of the strangers.

Father Henry rode a little grey pony; round his
habit he had buckled on a belt, in which huno- a
sheath. He carried the sword in his hand.

The Knight, too, accompanied his men, but
he was unarmed, for he thought it was hardly worth
while putting on armour or disturbing the repose
of his good sword for a fight of this sort. He
marched at the head of his people, leaning on a
stick, as if he was out looking after his fields and
meadows.

He turned to his people and strengthened the
monk's words by saying :

"Yes, cut down the rabble, and spare none
except the women and children! They have ill-
requited my hospitality. They have swept the
monastery clean, and not even spared the Blessed
Virgin's crown or the chalice of the Mass. Swing

79

/

Singoalla

your axes, lads, as if you were felling trees in the
forest."

But before the troop had reached the enclosure,
Assim, on a sign from the chief, had walked up to
the oak where Erland, almost swooning from the
draught, stood bound. Assim held a dagger in his
hand. Sallow and trembling, he held its point
against Erland's breast.

" Ho, there ! " shouted the chief, who had
mounted a waggon. "What do you seek? Are
you come as enemies ? If so, let us parley and see
if the matter can be settled as among friends."

" No parley, sacrilegious scoundrel ! " shouted
the Father, riding up towards the enclosure so fast
that his people were unable to follow him.

" Look there and relent," said the chief, pointing
to the oak which was visible high on the hilltop
above the barricade.

" Erland ! " exclaimed the Father, turning pale.

"Yes, the Knight's son. If you approach one
step more, I will give a sign and the dagger shall
be plunged into his breast."

" My curse upon you, heathen ! " shouted the

Father.

80

Zl)c Brcahing^up of tbc Camp

" One step ! " said the chief, raising his hand.
Assim Hfted the dagger, and wondered as he felt a
great lust for blood.

" Stop ! " cried the Father, beckoning to the chief,
to the Knight and his people, who had already-
formed for an assault upon the waggons.

"What now ? " asked the Knicrht.

" There ! look ! stop ! Not a step forward ! "

Bengt, too, turned pale and had scarcely strength
to shout to his people :

"Stand back!"

"A parley? Yes or no?" asked the chief,
while his dark men, turning one to the other, half
resolute, half trembling, were awaiting the begin-
ning of the fight.

" A parley ! " said the Knight.

" Do you allow us to depart unharmed ? "

"Yes."

"With all that we possess? Mind, what we
have taken we hold to be our own ! We think our
right to all we take thus, good. Is it free departure
with all that we possess ? "

The Knight did not reply, but silently fixed his
eyes on Father Henry.

8i 6

Singoalla

" Surrender at least the chalice of the Mass and
the golden crown! The rest you may keep," said
the Father with a sisfh.

o

" Nay," rejoined the chief. " Let us not be
mean. Free departure with all we have got. and
the lad shall be surrendered unhurt, if you swear
upon your Saviour's image neither to harry us
in the least yourselves, nor set on others to
do so."

" I will, to the utmost of my power, indemnify
the monastery for its loss," whispered Bengt to the
Father, with a glance of utter dread at Assim's
uplifted dagger. " Let us take the oath, and let
them depart."

With another sigh, Father Henry produced a
crucifix which he carried by a chain round his
neck.

" All for the dear boy's sake. But how has he
fallen into their hands? I do not understand it."

The Knight and the Father both took the
required oath.

"Lower the dagger, and loose the prisoner,"
shouted the chief to Assim.

" No, no ! " cried out several voices. " Do not

82

^bc Brcaktnci«*up of tbc Camp

surrender our hostage ! They will attack and slay
us.

"Calm yourselves," said the chief in the lan-
guage of his people. " These northern men are a
queer people. They hold to what they promise,
even without oath and hand-clasp. And, at least,
are we not ready for defence ? . . . Gentle sir," said
the chief to Bengt, "do not believe that we have
by force taken your son with us ! He has come
into our camp himself to accompany us in our
wandering through the world, for he has fallen in
love with my daughter, and will not be parted from
her."

"You lie," said the Knight. "But I will not
bandy words with you. Begone, and fear the
punishment of Heaven ! "

"Yes, begone, Amalekite ! " shouted Father
Henry.

The chief bowed, as was his custom, and put
his hand to his forehead.

Meanwhile, Erland was unbound from the tree

and led forth by two men. His face was sallow,

his gait tottering, and his wits wandered so that

he did not know where he was nor what had

83

Singoalla

happened. They had to lift him over the waggons,
and when he was outside the barricade and with
his friends, he sank down on the ground.

"What have you done to my son ?" cried out
the Knight in great fear, lifting up E Hand's head
and looking at him keenly.

"Nothing," replied the chief from his defences.
" Perhaps fright has done this."

"Fright!" repeated the Knight with flashing
eyes. "My son frightened by your treacherous
daggers ? No, he never was afraid, can never be
afraid."

"May be," observed Father Henry, " wrath at
being bound has exhausted the strength of the boy."

And so Erland was brought home to the castle
of Eko, and the Knight and the Prior returned with
their following.

No sooner had they marched away, and the
chief had sent out spies to assure himself that they
had gone indeed, than he ordered Singoalla to be
brought before him.

The girl, who had hitherto fought vainly to
escape from the hands of the women, threw herself
at her father's feet. Her long hair flowed in wild

84

Zbc BrcaJ^ing^up of the Camp

disorder ; her face bled from the scratches which
the old witch, Assim's mother, had given her ;
her gfown was m rasfs.

Assim's mother and the other women ran after
her, and gathered screaming round the chief. The
men also flocked together to the spot.

"Justice! justice!" yelled Assim's mother.
" Have things come to this, that the son of a
dead chief, the seed of the gods, should be in-
sulted by the daughter of the living chief? Is
Assim not good enough for Singoalla ? Wait ; our
tribe is strong . . . our kin is so noble that, com-
pared to it, yours is as dirt to the lustre of the
sun."

"Stay your tongue, crone," said the chief, "or
I will cut it out of your throat ! Did I ever forget
what justice demands ? "

"My father," cried Singoalla, twining her arms
round his waist, " the fair youth is my husband.
We have sworn troth to each other on Alako's
image ; you can never take him from me."

"She raves," said the chief. "Where is
Assim .'* "

" I am here."

85

Sinooalla

" Fetch a pitcher!"

The pitcher was brought by a woman. The
chief Hfted it up.

"Assim," he said, "I give you my daughter
in marriage, and in token thereof I break
this "

"Stop," cried Assim, "you know not if I will
take her. I do not covet an apple that another
has bitten."

The chief knit his brows and pressed his lips
together. But the fear of Assim's family, which
was held in superstitious dread, turned the violence
of his wrath from Assim, who had cruelly insulted
him, against Singoalla.

"Begone!" he cried out, thrusting her away.
" I will show how a chief should do justice, and
cursed be the tongue that dare upbraid me for
unfairness ! Daughter, you have scorned the
descendant of one of the ten princes that led our
people out of Assaria, the country of their fore-
fathers. You knew you were set apart to be
Assim's wife, but you left him for a stranger.
Then seek this stranger, his love or coldness, his

I pity or hate, but seek nothing more at our hands !

86

vibe «rcahin0*=up of tbe Camp

You are an outcast from our band. Go to your
stranger ! "

Hearty cheers from Assim's kindred and friends,
who formed the majority of the band, greeted these
words.

The chief had by this deed made sure his
threatened headship. That was the purpose he
had in view. Wrath, too, had a share in it.
But now that sentence was pronounced, he felt a
sting in his heart, and he expected that voices
would be raised in defence of Singoalla.

But all exulted — all except Assim, who stood
silent, and two young girls, Singoalla's playmates,
■who stepped forth, embraced her, and wept.

From the rest there was only heard applause
which pierced the chief's very soul.

"Our chief is just!" shouted the men.

But Assim's mother danced round Singoalla,
pointing at her with her finger. And the other
women, both the older ones, who thought of Assim
for their own daughters, and the younger,
who envied Singoalla's beauty and approved the
thoughts of their mothers, cried, "Go! Away
with you to your stranger ! "

87

Singoalla

SIngoalla pushed the hair from her forehead,
turned to her father, and said :

" I will go, father. Yes, I go willingly to the
fair boy, for I love him, and he loves me ; he is
my husband, and I am his wife. But you I love,
too, and after I have found my husband, I shall
seek you out, for you cannot cast me away for
ever — your goodness will not suffer it."

So Sinoroalla turned and went forth from the
camp.

88

X.

The Night.

HE girl wandered through the forest,
following the tracks which the waggons
of her people had made. Twilight was
brooding over the earth, when, tired, hesitating,
and tremblinsr, she saw the castle of Eko raise
its tower over the grey lake. The drawbridge
was up, and she dared not by calling announce
her presence. The girl sat down on a stone by
the shore, buried her face in her hands, and
wept. She thought of many things — her father's
wrath, the women's scoffs, but most of Assim's
mother's words when she said that she had filled
the fair youth's cup with poison.

"She lied, yes, she lied," said Singoalla to her-
self, for she wished to drive away this terrible
thought.

At length she was aroused from her sad musing
by stealthy steps. She saw several men approach.

89

Singoalla

She rose, and they sprang out to catch her and

bring her to the lord of the castle. They had

recognised in her a woman belonging to the band

of sacrilegious heathens and poisoners which they had

pursued that day under the guidance of the Knight,

their lord, and of the Father.

Then fear seized Singoalla's heart, and she fled

into the forest. Arrows whizzed around her in the

air. None hit her, but she heard them, and she

fled — fled as fast as her panting bosom allowed.

For long she heard behind her footsteps and shouts,

but it was only the wind which had just begun to

sweep through the forest. Sometimes she stopped

terrified, for the darkness confused her and made

her see an enemy in each queerly-shaped bush, and

with a cry, and pressing her hands against her

throbbing heart, she would fly again like a hunted

doe, without knowing whither. The sky was

covered with black clouds which made the gloom

deeper; the wind rose, and rain began to fall. Sounds

whistled through the rocks and rattled in the trees

as if all nature took voice to threaten and frighten

her. Yet the raindrops fell coolingly on her

burning forehead and gave her strength to speed

90

^be miQbt

on; but at last strength and feeling failed her, and
she sank down on the moss under a pine-tree.

When she awoke to consciousness and looked
around, she did not know where she was. The
darkness had wrapped everything in an impene-
trable veil, the storm was roaring, and the rain
fell in torrents. She called her father's name, she
called Erland's name, but her voice died away
through the wild music of the night. Then she
heard a howl in her neighbourhood. "That's a
wolf," she thought; "he is howling with hunger!
He may as well kill me, for my father has put
me away, and Erland is poisoned by Assim's
mother." Thinking thus, Singoalla rose and went
in the direction from whence the howl came. She
heard it quite close now . . . she saw something
move under a tree . . . she approached . . . she
felt a shaggy beast put his paws on her breast . . .
she sank to the ground . . . the animal stood over
her, sniffed at her face, licked it with his soft tongue,
and gave a joyous cry.

" Kack ! " she cried.

It was the faithful hound which one of the
wandering people had tied to a tree outside the

91

Singoalla

enclosure of waggons, before they played their
treachery on Erland.

" Ah ! my good Kack, you are not a wolf, you
will not kill me!" said Singoalla. "But you are
Erland's dog, and I love you."

. Then Singoalla saw that Kack was tied, and
she released him from the tree.

"Now stay with me," she went on to say,
clasping him round the neck, " for, good Kack,
I am dreadfully lonely, much afraid, and v^ery
unhappy. My father has sent me away from
him, and Erland is perhaps dead. But if he
is alive, we cannot meet, for his father and all his
kinsfolk, nay, all white men are angry with me and
want to kill me. My father is a robber, and my
kinsfolk are poisoners. Oh, good Kack, I am alone
and so unfortunate !"

So spoke Singoalla and wept. But Kack dis-
engaged himself and disappeared in the darkness.
Even he abandoned her. He did not understand
her; he was hungry, and longed, no doubt, for his
master. But he soon came back and put his head
on Singoalla's lap. He wanted only to move freely

a little while, for he had been tied up long. He

92

zbc mm

stayed the whole night with Singoalla, listening
patiently to her complaints, just as if he understood
them, and licking her hands again and again, the
only way by which he could express his sympathy.

Towards morning Singoalla sank into an unquiet
slumber. Her tender body shook with cold and
weariness. She was aroused by Rack's barking.
A man stood before her.

"Assim!" she exclaimed, gazing blankly at him.

" Yes, it is Assim, unhappy Singoalla," he said.
" I have been seeking you the whole night."

" What do you want with me ? "

" To save you, Singoalla ; to keep you from
falling into, the hands of the white men. You are
alone, unfortunate child, are you not ? You are
hungry; here is bread! You are cold; here is my
cloak ! Stand up, Singoalla. If you do not love
Assim, let him at least save you. You are
abandoned by your father, but I cannot abandon
you."

" Leave me ! You and your mother have killed
my Erland. You are hateful in my eyes."

Assim made no reply and hid his face in his
hands.

93

StngoaUa

"Assim," exclaimed Singoalla hurriedly, "you
are good, I will not turn you away. No, I will follow
you and I will love you, if you will only grant me
one wish."

"You know I would die for you; I will do all
that you want, only I cannot leave you." said Assim
with a slight gleam of joy in his dark face.

" Go to the castle and return here with Erland !
Do not come back without him ! Do not dare to
come without him ! "

"Your Erland is dead," said Assim, his heart
cruelly rent by these words.

" You are lying."

" No, when I sought you I also was in the
neighbourhood of the castle. I heard people talking
and saying that he was dead.'

"Go then from my face and let me die,"
implored Singoalla, leaning her head against the
trunk of the pine.

Assim stood motionless, his bosom heaved with
sighs.

Singoalla, too, was silent, and sat motionless
with her forehead pressed against the hard bark
of the pine-tree.

94

Cbc IRujbt.

SiHgoa2la>\

[!•'

ace p. 04.

>

i

:^^

;JUI

:^--

Zbc miQbt

Then Assim at last approached her, lifted her
into his arms and carried her some little distance.
On the same hill where the barricade of waggons
had lately been, Assim had two horses in readiness.
He wrapped Singoalla up in his cloak, tied her to
one of the horses, took the reins, vaulted on to the
other horse, and rode towards the south.

Kack followed Assim and Singoalla.

95

XI.

The Poisoned Draught.

iHEN Assim said that Erland was dead,
he Hed out of jealousy and from an
impulse to save Singoalla.
But Erland was near death ; and it needed
a mighty effort of his vigorous constitution and
Father Henry's medical science to triumph over
the poisoned draught. The Father discovered the
cause of his sickness; the crisis soon enough
appeared, and Erland's life was from that moment
out of danorer. But the effects were lona: continued
and of a terrible character, for his intellect, and
especially his memory of the past, were almost
extinguished. He hardly recognised his father and
mother. The Prior sat during the long days of
the illness at his bedside and amused him with
tales. He listened and caught with difficulty the
thread of the simple stories. The tales which the
P^ather told he chose with special purpose. They

96

Zbc poisoned Brauobt

turned exclusively on young knights who had
been bewitched by mountain elves and witches,
and who had drunk deep draughts from poisoned
horns of love and forgetfulness of the past. In
Erland's soul these elves and witches by-and-by
took the shape of a young and beautiful girl on
whose image he at first smiled, but who soon struck
him as being mysterious and terrible. This girl
was Sino-oalla.

o

Sometimes Singoalla's name escaped his lips ;
but this happened unknowingly, and the sound of
her name, once so beloved, now penetrated, as if
it had come from another's lips, into his soul and
filled it with anguish.

He recollected in a confused way the adventure
he had met in the camp of the wandering people ;
he felt his arms tied, and saw a dagger aimed
at his breast. But the hand that seemed to him
to be brandishino- this daoro-er belonged sometimes

o oo o

to a dark man with ghastly eyes, at another time
to a girl-witch, and this girl was Singoalla.

Again, his imagination played with the frag-
ments of a more beautiful past. He sometimes
imagined himself carried to the hill beside the

97 7

Stngoalla

brook, and there saw himself gathering flowers in
company with a girl who struck him as being sweet
and lovable.

But this o^irl's face was not that of Sino^oalla.
It bore the gentle features of Helen Ulfsax. And
this was not to be wondered at, for Helen Ulfsax
often watched by the sick youth's bed, and his
eyes then reflected her face.

At last Erland was so far restored to health as
to be able to go out. Leaning on his mother's
arm, and accompanied by the fair-haired Helen,
he wandered into the fragrant forest and inhaled
the fresh air of heaven. By chance, or perhaps
by habit, he walked the path he himself had
trodden to the hill by the brook, his former
trysting-place with Singoalla. The wind whis-
pered in the spruces as before on the top of the
hill, the brook murmured as of old, and the same
flowers grew there as in other days. Erland sat
down by the brink of the brook; a feeble recollec-
tion of something delightful, but now past, sported
through the mist of his memory and filled his
breast with delicious melancholy. He looked up, saw

Helen at his side, and raised her hand to his lips.

98

(Ibc poi6onet) Draugbt

But Bengt had now determined that Erland, when
he was fairly restored to health, should leave home
and go out into the world to recover his spirits and
feel again the joys of life, and, in the school of war,
develop himself as a man and a knight.

Nobody wished this more than Erland himself.
He wanted, like the warriors of ancient days, to
acquire name and fame through prowess. The
passion of youth for adventure awoke. The
summer was spent in making ready for the
journey. Twenty men — tenants of the Knight —
were equipped to accompany Erland. He chose
them himself from among the stoutest youths of
the neighbourhood, and he exercised them daily in
arms in the castle-yard.

Autumn was drawing; near when Erland said
farewell, and richly furnished with weapons, horses,
and money, departed with his little troop. The
road to Kalmar was chosen, whence a sailing
vessel was to carry the adventurers to Germany,
where Erland intended to offer his services to the
Emperor.

But before Erland left Eko castle, he and Helen
Ulfsax had plighted their troth.

99

Singoalla

When the billows of the sea danced round
Erland's ship and carried him farther and farther
from the shores of his native land, strange
thoughts sometimes stirred in the youth's breast.
The name of Singoalla echoed in his mind and
confused it. He loathed and loved this name at
the same time. In its sound lay love and senti-
ment, poison and sorcery. Sometimes brown eyes
gleamed in his recollection, sometimes brown
cheeks blushed, seeking, as it were, to challenge
the image of the gentle Helen, Erland's betrothed,
and trying, by their beauty, to outshine hers.
Then Erland said:

"Away, unholy vision, from my soul!" and
he whistled for a fair wind, took his stand at the
helm, and steered his keel towards the south.

100

part tbe Secon^.
I.

Benoni.

EN years have gone and many changes
have taken place during that time.

Riddar Erland Moneskold is now lord
of Eko castle ; his wife is Helen Ulfsax, and she
now carries a little Erland in her arms.

Bengt and the Lady Elfrida are sleeping their
last long sleep. When Erland came back home
from abroad, wearied of war, bloodshed, and empty
glory, they were already reposing in their tomb
beneath the altar of the monastery chapel.

But Father Henry was alive, and as he formerly
visited Bengt, so he now visited Erland, and sat
beside him of an evening in the banqueting-hall,
conversing about the remarkable adventures the
Knight had met with in foreign countries. Lady
Helen listened and smiled at her little son ; the

101

Singoalla

maidens listened too, where, farther away in the
hall, they turned their distaffs.

Erland was happy with his wife, but his bliss was
not unalloyed. Tell me, reader, where such can
be found on earth ? He had quenched the fire of
his youth in the clash of battle. Manly gravity,
at times changing into gloom, rested upon his brow.
He had tried life and men, and now sought, in rest
and oblivion, his earthly comfort by the fireside.

But in the depth of his soul dwelt a shade
which sighed in darkness and strove to ascend to
the lioht of thought and feelino^. Yet the Kniofht
cursed its sighing, and conjured it, as a bad spirit,
to stay quiet in the depths — to chase it away
altogether he was not able to do.

It was the image of Singoalla.

This shade followed him in battle and adven-
ture, in joy and grief, in times of hope fulfilled and
in times of disappointment. His remembrance of
the brown girl was clearer to be sure, but still
stood in a faint half-light, like that which broods
over the heath when the moon rises blood-red above
the horizon. It was always linked with recollec-
tions of meetings by night in the forest, of sacrilege,

102

(

m

Bcnoni

a poisoned draught, dagger-thrusts, sorcery, and
heathendom. And yet he sometimes owned to him-
self that it was with a feeHncr of love that he clunsf
to this image. Then it was that he did not like
to look into Helen's eyes ; but rode out into the
forest, rode wildly till the horse was covered with
foam, rode long until night brooded over the
earth.

One summer's evening when the Knight, beset
by his gloomy mood, rode in the forest, a thunder-
storm came upon him, followed by heavy showers
of rain. He sought shelter in the monastery, in
whose neighbourhood he was. The Brother-
janitor, now so bald with age that a tonsure was
unneeded, opened the door, saluted the Knight,
and told him that the Prior was in the library.
The Knight entered and found his old teacher,
with pen in hand, writing in the folio at which he
had begun to work ten years ago. His was the
untiring diligence which adds pebble to pebble
until a mountain lifts its head, as time adds
second to second till, as their number grows, it
seems like eternity. The room had remained un-
altered, dusky and solemn; the birch-trees dimmed

103

Sinaoalla

r

as of yore the green arched window, and the foHos
stood on their old shelves ; nay, the very marker
that the Father, ten years ago, during the last
reading-hour, laid at '' Exirenmm ktmc, Aretktisa,
mihi concede laborem,'' still remained in the old
Virgil. But the pupil of bygone days was no
longer a boy, but a man with earnest brow and
pale, bearded cheeks.

Erland sat down by the Father's side. The
storm which was raging outside, and the melan-
choly patter of the showers of rain beating against
the window, gave their talk a weird tone. The
two men conversed about the perishableness of
human things, but whereas Erland only saw them
shifting, fleeing, foaming, and vanishing in the
river of time, the monk pointed towards heaven
1^ and reminded him of the everlasting ; and when
Erland said that he had nowhere found pure
metal in man's heart, but that it always had in it
some base alloy, the Father said, " Dust is dust,
spirit is spirit, but even here in the dust, the spirit
shall, nevertheless, be master. All things shall be
subjected to spirit ; heaven shall descend to the

earth, and a new age dawn for man."

104

3Benoni

"Do you believe that, reverend Father?" said
Erland. "Then perhaps the master-builder is
now walking over the earth and clearing the
ground for the new building."

" What do you mean ?" asked the monk.

" I mean the Plague, the Black Death,
which is now ravaging the world. I have told
you before of the sights I saw in Germany,
Italy, France, nay, wherever I steered my course.
When I returned here, I left behind me a
veritable graveyard. All the countries of the
south were full of lamentation and the dead.
Men died as corn falls before the sickle. Llibeck
was the last town I saw in the Roman Empire, for
from there I once more took ship for Kalmar, and
in the streets of Lubeck lay nine thousand dead.
I have heard men talk of towns where a hundred
thousand had died within a few days. Is not this
the master-builder now walkingf over the earth and
clearing the ground for the new building ? Will it
not soon be our turn too ?"

''Miserere, Domine ! Lord, have mercy!"

muttered the Father with clasped hands.

" Look," continued the Knight, pointing towards

105

Stngoalla

the window; "look at these drops falling against
the window-panes and trickling down ! Perhaps
the clouds that have bred them have been driven
here from the plague-smitten south, where they
have drunk in the foul air bred by the dead that
cover the earth; perhaps these clouds are the
destroying angel's mantle fluttering over our heads ;
perhaps every one of these drops bears within its
womb a seed for the destruction of the living.
Who knows ? "

" Lord, have mercy !" whispered the monk.

The darkness of the library was increased by
the black clouds that sailed across the sky. Now
and then a flash of lightning gleamed through the
sky and threw a dazzling light into the room. It
was as if a voice from heaven had borne witness
to the truth of the Knight's dismal foreboding.

" I have heard it said," he went on to say,
*' that the coming of the Plague to a place is fore-
shown by a vision. Early in the morning a boy
is seen to enter the gate of the town with a rake
in his hand. If he rake outside a house, many
therein will die. Sometimes there is with him a

girl carrying a broom, and if she sweep outside a

io6

Benoui

house, all therein will die. But this, perhaps, is
only an idle tale. It is certain, however, that most
men believe the Day of Judgment is at hand, and
therefore are bequeathing their wealth to churches
and monasteries."

" You spoke truth : it is the master-builder
clearing the ground for his new edifice. Erland,
when I saw you come home and marked the white
mantle with the red cross that covered your armour,
I said to myself: ' Behold a soldier who has vowed
his sword to the increase of the Faith, his body
to mortification, his wealth to the Church, his all
to God!' I thought that you had taken the vow
of a holy order of knighthood, and that you were at
once monk and warrior. I rejoiced thereat, for that
was what I dreamed for you when you were a boy ;
that was what I wished you to seek of your own free
will. True enough, all this is not fulfilled. You
have fought against the Infidels in Lithuania, but
you are a layman : you have a wife and son.
Know, young knight, that a building is being
set up with the earth for its foundation, with heaven
for its roof A new and mighty workman has set
his hand to the work, and is pushing it on with

107

Singoalla

giant speed ! This workman is, as you said, none

other than the Plague, which is now ravaging

the earth. Men, you said, too, bequeath their

wealth to churches and monasteries. Thus is the

building being raised stone by stone. Whosoever

hath much, to him more shall be given. The evil

spirit that is a very part of gold shall not be made

Christian until it has been bound with the bonds

of the Church. Then it will become an angel

pouring blessings on the earth from his horn of

plenty. All, all that is called earthly riches shall,

penny by penny, be gathered into the bosom of

the Church ; and when all, yea, all is gathered there,

where will be the power of earthly princes then ?

Where will be the rich who oppress the poor ?

where the distressed who call in vain for bread ?

where any power of spirit that shall not bear

fruit in God's service ? where a spark of genius

that shall not be sought out from under the ashes

and revived to a great light ? where one infant's

soul that shall not, with all its sleeping powers.

be developed into a perfect human soul ? When

the Church possesses all, then all shall be in

common, all men everywhere one brotherhood,

io8

Benoni

united in love-feasts around Christ's table. Then
there shall be none rich and none poor; then the
millennium will have come. Ay, may it come !
Amen ! Erland, this is the end for which a league,
extended throughout Christendom, yearns. The
head of this league is our Holy Father in Rome,
and I am one of its humblest members, with little
strength, but with good will and good hope. . . ."

The storm continued. It was now dark, and
the Father lit a lamp. Its dim light could not
hide the white flashes of lightning that every now
and then flickered over the black background of
the window, shedding their light on the pale faces
of the Knight and the monk.

" Follow me to the chapel . . . God's voice
is heard in the storm ... let us pray ! " said the
Father, rising. Erland followed him.

The monks were called to chapel. The tapers

in the branched candlesticks were lit. Gathered

round the altar the kneeling monks began a chant

whose tones rang with feelings to which no heart

is quite a stranger : man's fear of the supremacy

and wrath of nature, and of her hidden life-making

power, and unchecked lust of destroying, and also

109

Stngoalla

the trust of man in a merciful Being whose love
is present even in destruction.

The sound of the hallowed bells chimed in
with the chant of the monks ; but higher and
more mighty was the rumbling of the thunder, and
the roaring of the storm.

When the prayer was ended, the Father and
the Knight returned to the library. The bells
were still tolling; they were to ring as long as the
storm continued, thus exhorting the neighbouring
people to prayer.

The Knight now wished to return home, and
was just about to mount his horse, which had been
left in Brother John's charge; but at that very
moment the brother entered and announced that
a boy of strange and outlandish appearance wished
to speak with the Prior.

"Whence does he come in this foul weather?"
asked the Prior in astonishment.

" I know not."

The Prior and also the Knight instantly

thought of the vision that was believed to foretell

the Plague.

The boy was brought into the library and looked

no

Jijcnoiii,

Singoalla. )

[Kuce p. 110.

1 I

J

:©cnoni

at with wonder by the monk and the Knight. He
was small and delicate, and about nine years old.
Rain was dripping from his long, dark locks, but a
cloak which he had taken off outside in the arch-
way had protected his brown suit from the rain.
His features were beautiful, but of a stamp that one
would hardly have expected in a child ; for there
was set so deep an earnestness on his forehead,
such gloomy knowledge and mysterious splendour
in his eyes, so much mute and patient suffering on
his pale cheeks, in the lines around his little mouth,
and in the delicate veins outlined on his big eye-
lids, that they formed not a natural but rather
a supernatural harmony in his childish face. His
dress, as we have said before, was brown and of
coarse stuff, but of a cut that showed it had been
made by a mother, proud of the beauty of her
child.

Was he the Plague-boy? No, he did not
carry the weird rake. ... It was no phantom,
but a little creature with human blood in its
veins !

"Who are you?" asked the Father, turning

the light of the lamp on the stranger.

Ill

Singoalla

•* My name is Benoni."

" Have you wandered far in this awful storm,
poor child ?"

"Yes."

"Whence do you come ?"

" From afar."

" Benoni ! A strange name ! Yet it is known
in Holy Scripture.^ Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Are you a Christian?" asked Erland quickly.

The boy again answered "Yes."

" Can you pronounce the names of God and
Christ?" asked the Prior for greater surety.

"God and Christ," repeated the boy, bowing his
head and making the sign of the cross.

"Well," continued the Prior, more at ease,
"tell me now what your errand is, and give me
also a fuller account of the reason of your wander-
ing; how you chanced to come here, and who are
your father and mother. After that you shall be
taken to the monastery kitchen, eat your fill, and
shall have a bed to rest in, for I doubt not you
are tired and hungry."

1 Genesis xxxv. i8: Ben-om'—iha.t is, the son of my sorrow. — Tr.

112

Bcnoni

While the Prior was speaking, a flash of
liofhtninsf shone into the room, and the thunder
rumbled so vehemently over their heads that the
Father and the Knight crossed themselves and
said, ''Miserere!'' But Benoni stood calm, with
his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come here," said the Knight to the boy,
"and let me look at you more closely."

Benoni walked up and looked into the Knight's
eyes.

Erland put his hand on the boy's head and
sighed deeply — he did not know why. He could
not take his eyes ofl^ the boy's features ; they re-
minded him of something in the past. And while
he was thus gazing at the face of the little wan-
derer, the shadow which dwelt in the depth of his
being again began to sigh, stir, and try to force its
way up into the brighter regions of his soul that
were illuminated by memory. Then the Knight
with unthinking vehemence seized the little one's
arm, in doubt whether to clasp him to his heart or
fling him away with all his force. But the boy
gave the Knight a look as if he would say, " Let
go my arm ! You are hurting me."

113 8

Singoalla

What the Prior sought to know he got only
by many repeated questions. This is what he
learned :

Benoni had wandered far, through large forests,
through many towns, and crossed vast waters.
What the names of these forests, towns, and
waters were he did not know, for he grave no
thought to names, and he had forgotten those he
had heard. He had not been alone in his wander-
ings. He had had companions, but as to whom
they were he said little. When the Father asked
him about this, he was silent, as if he did not
understand the question, and when the Father
repeated it he was silent again.

With regard to the object of his wandering,
Benoni gave the following account, which astonished
his hearers in no small degree :

"It has been revealed to my mother that there

was a monastery in this neighbourhood which had

once, in years gone by, been plundered by the

heathen. It was likewise revealed to my mother

that the stolen treasures would be found again by

me if she were willing to undertake with me a

pilgrimage to the distant monastery, and if a knight

114

Benont

who is lord of the surrounding neighbourhood were
wilHng to take me for his only henchman, and if I
were willing to serve him for a hundred days and
sleep on the mat by his door. My mother said
that doing this would be a work pleasing to God ;
and moreover that she had been unfortunate, and
that God would perhaps restore her to happiness if
this revelation were accomplished. She also said
that we ought to do this for the sake of my father s
soul, for my father had sinned much in not ful-
filling a sacred promise. Moreover, my mother
was glad to have had this revelation, and did not
delay setting out on her journey, taking me with
her. I had also another companion, but now I am
alone. Is this the monastery to which I am sent?
Has this monastery been visited by heathen ?
Does any knight called Erland live in this neigh-
bourhood, for I have been told that such is his
name ? "

"The God who has protected you on your long
journey, tender pilgrim, has also guided your steps
aright," said the Father, looking with reverence at
Benoni. "Well, this monastery was plundered ten
years ago by heathen, and the knight you seek is

115

Sinooalla

sitting here. This man is Riddar Erland Bengtson
Moneskold. It seems as if God is minded to per-
form a miracle in our days. The issue will show.
Not seldom, however, one hears talk of visions and
revelations as marvellous. Did your mother re-
ceive this revelation awake or dreaming, young
Benoni ? "

But Benoni did not reply, for all his mind was
turned to the Knight. The boy shook his head
and said to himself:

" No, he does not look as my mother said —
young, handsome, and beardless."

" What do your eyes want ? " asked the Knight,
who had sat silent with his brow buried in his
hand. His voice was stern when he put the
question.

"Are you Riddar Erland?" asked Benoni.

"Yes. . . . And you, vagabond, who is your

father, and who is your mother ? You have said

much, but nothing of this. Your speech has been

long and slippery as an eel. It has run on, leaving

nought to lay hold of. Who are you ? Of all you

have said I know nothing."

But Father Henry began in chosen words to

ii6

Benoni

show the Knight that this was not the right way
to treat so young and unprotected a pilgrim, and
one who had come on so wonderful an errand.
Not only for the pilgrim's own sake, not only for
his father's and mother's sake, nor only for the sake
of the monastery, but chiefly to see if God meant
to work a miracle, it was Erland's duty to re-
ceive the pilgrim into his house and let him sleep
on his mat. If delusion or deceit was at work, it
would, without doubt, soon be revealed, if not
before, then at the end of the hundred days.

The monk added that Benoni should rest that
night in the monastery ; but that, if the Knight
were willing to take him as his servant for the
time proposed, the pious mission that the child was
thus to perform should on the following morning be
consecrated by a solemn Mass in the monastery
chapel, at which the Knight and Lady Helen were
desired to assist.

"Well," replied the Knight, "so be it." And
he kept on whispering, " If I had not heard this
boy utter the names of God and Christ. I should
take him to be an evil spirit, an awful fiendish cheat

from the abyss of Hell. Look at his eyes! Are

117

Singoalla

they the eyes of a child ? Does not misfortune
speak from out of their dark depths ? I charge
you, reverend Father, sprinkle this child to-morrow
plenteously with holy water ! "

" To me his face is comely, nor do I see evil
lurking in his eyes," replied the Prior.

" I was thinking of the Plague-boy," muttered
the Knight; "God forbid this boy bring evil into
my house ! "

"What a thought!"

The Knight turned over the leaves of the
manuscript lying before him without thought,
buried his head in both his hands, but lifted it and
looked with a glance of surprise and suspicion,
almost timid, towards the door, for he heard some-
thing therefrom : a child's voice half whispering,
half singing, accompanied by sounds of a clear,
piercing, and ethereal ring.

"What is that.'^ Is it he.'* Does he dare to
sing in our presence ? And when it is thundering !
Have mercy, O Lord ! What a flash ! "

The Knight was about to rise. His eyes were

turned menacingly on the boy ; but the Father put

his hand on his arm to check him. Even the

ii8

:»enoni

Father was astonished when he heard Benoni

singing, and saw him kneeling down and tapping

with his fingers pieces of glass which he had taken

from out his clothes and put on the floor. It is

true that children often quickly change from

earnestness to play and from play to earnestness,

but at this moment, and among such surroundings,

it was indeed wonderful. The Knight turned his

face towards the monk and said :

" My old teacher, I am ashamed when I say it,

and I do not understand it, but this child, if child it

be at all, confounds me, frightens me, calls up ugly

memories and fancies. You hear him singing ?

Believe me, it is a song of witchcraft. Hear what

I have to tell. I heard in my boyhood a vagabond

— an old man it was then, instead of a boy — sing an

incantation which made me half mad with a desire

to rush into crowds of men and smite and kill and

be killed. He sang of Satan, whom he called

Odin, at the head of the ancient Swedes and

Goths, our ill-starred heathen ancestors, inciting

them to fight, maybe, against the soldiers of

Christ. He sang of showers of arrows pouring

down over forests of spears, he sang of a sea of

119

Singoalla

weapons rolling in howling billows, lashed by the
storm of Valkyrs and glittering in the lightning
flashes of swords. I saw, yes, I saw, Satan on
the eight-footed horse of Hell. Grey clouds and
blue tatters of sky fluttered from his shoulders.
I heard his shouts right amidst the horns of
battle, dinning like the last trumpet. The mere
memory of all this pierces my very marrow and
bones. I was enchanted, bewitched, beside myself.
Wandering singers are a dangerous race. It is
well they have now nearly died out. This boy is
of their blood. Silence him ! "

Benoni's song was melancholy, and only con-
sisted of a few notes, which formed an even, lone-
some, and strange melody. If the Knight and the
Father had chosen to listen to Benoni's song when
the thunder was silent, they would have heard the
following words, sung to the ringing of the pieces
of glass, the purling of the rain outside, and the
peal of the bells from the tower :

Down sinks the sun, low'r frowning the clouds with ominous

menace.
Foaming the lake rolls, and rustling the woods 'neath

vagabond scud.

120

36enoni

Cranes are crying on dreary crags;
Sheltered by rocks the falcon dwells,
Wearied of hunting he hideth
His beak in his shower-soak'd wings.

Sunk has the sun, and darkness grows deeper 'neath pine-
tree and fir.
Rattles the rain I Ever murmurs the rillet through heather
and moss.

In grief the clouds their tears outpour —
The son rests on his mother's lap —
The clouds' son and his mother sad —
In tears they long to melt away !

Thus sang Benoni, but before he had finished,
the Knight arose, went up to him, and trampled
his glass into fragments.

" Do you not hear the thunder ? " he said, roughly
seizing the boy by the arm. "Will you mock
God's voice in the storm ? Where learned you
manners ? Should not even the pious cross them-
selves and bow their heads before the li^htninor ?
Are you a heathen?"

Benoni first looked at his broken instrument and
then at the Knight.

" May I serve you for one hundred days or

121

Stngoalla

not ? " he asked, as if he had not understood the
Kniorht 's anorer.

The Knight let go the boy's arm, for he could
hardly bear his glance, and replied :

" You may come, for I wish to know who
you are. But these hundred days shall be no
days of feasting and merriment, I warn you !
You may sleep on my mat, but you shall be
my dog and paid with kicks. And if the
treasures plundered from the monastery be not
recovered by you, as you feign has been
revealed to your mother they shall be, then
look for worse to come!"

Benoni showed no sign of fear, but seemingly
rejoiced in the promise, and something of gladness
glistened in his dark eyes.

The Knight then bade the Prior good night.
The heart of the holy Father grieved over such
harshness towards the little pilgrim, but he tried
to lighten it by showing him more kindness.
When the Knight had gone, the Prior took
Benoni, not to the monastery kitchen, but to the
monks' table in the refectory, seated him at supper
between himself and the oldest monk in the monas-

122

Benoni

tery, and spoke to the monks of the latter's pil-
grimage and strange errand.

When they had heard all, the brethren paid
]3enoni greater reverence than elderly men are
wont to show to boys, and when the meal was
over, a bed was made for Benoni in the library.
Here he was left alone after the Prior had bidden
him good night, blessed him, and returned to his
cell.

123

II.

The Knight and the Pilgrim.

JARLY on the following morning, they cele-
brated in the chapel the Mass by which
Father Henry had determined to consecrate
Benoni's holy errand to the house of Erland.

The thunder of the past night had purified the
air, and the morning was beautiful. Lady Helen
walked to the monastery, leaning on Erland's arm,
followed by all the serving-men and maids of the
castle. The Knight had told his wife about his
meeting with Benoni, the boy's errand, and his
own promise to receive him. Against this promise
Lady Helen had nought to say, as it concerned a
pious work, through which God's power might be
revealed by a miracle. Nay, she greatly desired
to see this young pilgrim, and rejoiced much that
it was in her own house that the revelation had
charged him to serve and do penance. So when
Lady Helen entered the chapel and the solemn

124

x.

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Singoallet. \

p. 124.

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( UNIVERSITY ;

Zbc Ikni^jbt anb tbc pilgrim

chant of the monks fell upon her ears, when
amongst their bent figures she discovered the little
pilgrim-boy, dressed in a white vestment, and
looking more beautiful than any of the cherubs
adorning the sanctuary walls, she fell upon her
knees — an example followed by the Knight and
all his people — and in a hymn of St. Ambrose,
sung by awed voices, and filling the church with
its solemn sweetness, she mingled her prayers with
those of the monks that the good work might
not fail :

" 0 Rex, (zterne Domine,
RefUJii creator omnium,
Qui eras ante scecula
Semper cum Patre Filius ..."

The censers swung and their incense veiled
the choir in light mist ; the pilgrim knelt at the
altar rails and received benediction. Then the
Prior took hold of his hand and led him to the
Knight, and Lady Helen received him with kind
words. But the Knight said nothing, though he
watched sharply that Benoni, like the others, got
his full share of the holy-water as they left the
chapel. After putting on his every-day clothes

125

Singoalla

again, Benoni — a wonder to curious people — fol-
lowed his new master and mistress to the castle.

On their way there, it so happened that a
shaggy dog, with the slow, stiff stride of age,
came out of the forest, joined Benoni, and licked
his hand ; then he sniffed at the Knight, gave a
howl, and tried to jump into his arms. The
Knight repulsed the dog with a kick, but on
looking at the beast more closely, stopped and
exclaimed :

" My old Kack ! What, are you alive still !
Whence do you come ? "

Erland patted the dog, and his wonder at this
unexpected meeting was unbounded, for Kack had
been lost ten years, and the Knight believed the
strange people had stolen him, or that he had
been devoured by wolves.

Yet the Knight did not rejoice at seeing his

dog again, but was thereby filled with gloomy

thoughts and dark foreboding, blended with memories

of the past, from which he would fain have been

free. But Kack followed faithfully the Knight's

footsteps to the castle, and was welcomed there

by the old henchmen and servants, to whom his

126

Zbc IkniGbt an^ tbe iptlorim

unexpected return was a matter for much wonder,
and, in spite of the ill-will of the younger generation
of dogs, took possession of his old kennel in the
castle-yard.

Now must be told how Benoni spent his days
at the castle of Eko.

Erland agreed unwillingly to what Benoni's
mission asked. Lady Helen set apart for her
husband a room in the tower to serve for his bed-
chamber, and she exhorted him kindly but urgently
to let none but Benoni serve him, however bad this
service might be performed; for so, as has been told,
the revelation demanded. Hence, care was taken
that only Benoni should be allowed to fill Erland's
goblet and do his bidding. But the Knight was
loath to receive his goblet from the little penitent's
hand. Nay, on the first two days his lips did
not even touch its rim. Dark looks, hard words
fell to the boy's share abundantly; and sometimes
it happened that the Knight lifted his hand to
strike him ; but then Benoni stood as he was
wont — motionless and silent, with downcast eyes,
and the Knight thrust back his wrath. Least of

all could the Knight endure his eyes. Benoni

127

Siugoalla

knew this, and seldom looked him in the face.

To avoid this page thus strangely forced upon

him, the Knight kept in the woods and fields

more than his custom was, and went hunting and

fishing, visited his tenants, and overlooked their

work in field and meadow. Then Benoni had his

hours free, and he spent them in rambling about

the forest, often with Kack at his side, or in sitting

alone in some lonely garret of the tower, where a

window that had been broken by the wind gave him

the material for a new instrument. And to it he

sang strange and melancholy ditties, moved by

something within him. No one disturbed Benoni

at these times, for it was thought that in solitude

he waited for the revelation to find the stolen

treasures of the monastery. But at night Benoni

lay on the mat by Erland's door, and the Knight

heard uneasily, through sleepless hours, the sighs

that broke from the boy's bosom.

In the evenings, when the Knight was sitting

in the hall with his wife, Benoni's place was in

a corner apart. Lady Helen often spoke kindly

to the boy; but his face never brightened. Still

he understood her kindness: that she saw by his

128

^bc Ikniobt an^ tbe ipilcjnm

eyes. But when the Knight, as often happened,
embraced little Erland, his son, and let him ride
on his knee, or caressed and kissed him, Benoni
would keep back his sobs but not his tears. Tears
cannot be heard, and the corner where he sat
was dark.

Thus the time passed until the tenth day of
Benoni's stay at Eko. The Knight had rowed
out on the lake to fish; Benoni had gone to the
forest. When the Knight returned from fishing,
and had sat to dine, Benoni was not at hand. His
place was behind the Knight's chair, for he waited
upon his master at meals.

"A watchful servant and a zealous penitent,
this Benoni!" said the Knight. "Woe to his
poor father's soul unless works of supererogation
other than his son's can release it from Purgatory!"

But scarcely had the Knight pronounced these
words when Benoni entered.

"Come here," cried the Knight, whose anger

was aroused, for what reason it is difiicult to say.

"If you are my servant, you ought to see to your

work better, you elf!"

And with that, the Knight struck Benoni

129 9

Siuooalla

so sharp a blow on the face that he fell to the
floor.

Lady Helen gave her harsh husband a reproach-
ful look for his cruelty; but Benoni got up, dashed
away the shining tears from his eyes, and took
from his doublet a glittering diadem, and with
glowing cheeks handed it to the Knight.

It was the oolden crown from the statue of
the Virgin, ten years ago carried away from the
monastery by the wanderers. The Knight recog-
nised it with amazement; Lady Helen seized the
crown and burst into a cry of joy. Little Erland,
who was sitting beside his father, stretched out
his hands for it, for its lustre pleased his eyes.

"Where did you find the crown?" asked the
Knight.

"In the forest," replied Benoni.

" Have you found all ? "

"No; but in ten days I shall find more, and
when a hundred days have elapsed, I shall have
found all, so my mother has said."

The Knight was silent, and continued his meal.

But Lady Helen seized Benoni's arm, laid her

cheek to his, and said half to herself:

130

Zbc Ikniobt anb the pilcjrim

"Little pilgrim, forgive Sir Erland ! He does
not mean any harm, but he has a hasty temper."

At these words Benoni burst into tears, and
little Erland began to cry. Children's feelings are
stirred by those about them, and he liked Benoni,
for he sometimes played with the child, and showed
great forbearance to his whims.

Then the Knight rose, flung his chair to the
floor, left the hall, and went to his chamber in
the tower.

Benoni followed him, for so his service demanded.
But he found the door of the tower-chamber locked;
the Knight wanted to be alone. Then Benoni sat
down at the door and waited long hours. But
the Knight did not come forth till towards evening ;
then went to the hall, spoke but little with Lady
Helen, ate his supper, and returned to his bed-
room, followed by Benoni, whose duty, as we know,
required him to do so.

The daylight entered the dim and narrow

window sparingly. The Knight silently examined

an old sword. All was so quiet that the running

of the sand in the hour-glass was heard like a

gentle voice, whispering of consolation and death.

131

^^

Singoalla

" Fill my goblet ! " said the Knight at last.

Benoni poured some wine into the cup, and
with trembling hands and lowered eyes handed
it to his master.

"That is good," said the Knight, putting the
cup on the table.

Erland went to rest. Benoni lay down on his
mat. Then he noticed that his couch was softer
than usual, and found a quilt hidden under the mat.
Wondering who had done this, for none other
than the Knight and himself had been in the
chamber, he dragged away the quilt, for a hard
bed was part of his purpose.

The Knight saw this, but said nothing.

A little time passed, and only the sand-glass
was heard in the tower-chamber. Then said the
Knight:

" Benoni, move my pillow a little."

Benoni got up, did as he was bid, and returned
to his mat.

" Now I am comfortable," said the Knight.

Half-an-hour passed, and Benoni thought the
Knight was asleep, and so he eased his heart of
a sio^h, certain that it would not be heard by the

132

Zbc Ikniobt ant) the pilgrim

sleeper. But he started as the Knight's voice
asked a little while afterwards :

" Benoni, are you asleep ? "

"No."

Silence reigned in the room. An hour passed.
The untiring sand-glass whispered, as ever, of
consolation and death. Benoni listened to the
whisper and fancied he understood it. Then the
Knight's voice was heard again :

" Benoni, are you asleep ? "

This question sounded so gentle that it echoed
in Benoni's soul.

"No," replied he, biting his coverlet to stifle
a sigh.

"Benoni, why do you not sleep? Children
are wont to sleep at night ! Are you unhappy,
Benoni ? I have been hard with you, and have
ill-used you. Poor little pilgrim, alone in the
world but loved by God. Will you forgive me ? "

Benoni answered with sobs.

" Sleep now ! Happy be your dreams, poor
child ! " said the Knight.

133

III.

The Cave.

T pleased Lady Helen not a little to see the
quick change that had taken place in
Erland's feeling towards Benoni. Patience
and gentleness conquer wrath, thought Lady
Helen; and, moreover, that Benoni had found
the golden crown, and that hence the revelation
was true, in some measure turned the Knight to
gentler behaviour. So at least thought Lady
Helen.

Ever since the eleventh day of the boy's stay in
the castle, Erland had shown him kindness. This
so wrousrht on Benoni that his demeanour grrew
more easy and natural. Even in the Knight's
presence he played on bits of glass and sang, caring
not if any one heard him. He felt no bitterness
now, such as had extorted his silent tears when the
Knight petted his son. He looked Erland in the
eyes untroubled when presenting his cup. But

134

Zhc Cave

daily he visited the forest in hours when the Knight
had no need of his service, and Kack nearly always
was with him.

On the twelfth day it happened that Father
Henry went to the castle to see the little pilgrim,
whom he loved dearly, and regarded with a greater
reverence since the crown, so miraculously found,
had graced again the statue of the Holy Virgin in
the monastery; and to communicate to the Knight
the contents of a letter which had arrived from a
convent near the Norweoian border.

When the Father arrived, he learned that
Benoni had been long absent in the forest, but that
the Knight had just returned, and so he went to
his room to talk with him.

The Father's countenance, although it was wont
to be calm and cheerful, bore too clear witness of
trouble and uneasiness. The two men met in the
tower-chamber.

" Bad news," said the Father, laying the letter
on the table, and sitting down heavily in an easy-
chair. " This parchment has been sent to me from
my brother, Benedict, Prior of Gudtorp, a monastery

near the border of Norway."

135

Singoalla

"Well?" asked the Knight.

"You prophesied truly ... I feared it. . . .
Read! It is approaching us with great strides,
the day of God's wrath, dies irce, dies ilia. . .
The Plague is in the country, and spreading rapidly.
Lord, have mercy upon us ! What marvel if the
strongest heart now begins to quake ! "

Erland's pale cheeks turned paler. He seized
the parchment, and his eyes fell on these lines :

" This ghastly murderer, they say, came to the

Norwegian town of Bergen in a disabled English

ship, the crew of which were dead when she

drifted into the roadstead. He spares neither high

nor low, clerk nor layman, rich nor poor. At

Nidaros,^ the Archbishop Arne, with his whole

Chapter, has been slain by him. He has

wandered from valley to valley and swept away

all living things — men and cattle, wild beasts, and

the very birds beneath the sky. Now he is here.

Parce, parce, cohibe flagellum, D online Detis ! My

priory is wiped out. I alone am left. The bodies

of my brethren are rotting outside the monastery

gate, and I am not able to bury them. I see

^ The old name of Drontheim.
136

^bc Cave

through my window what is left of my people,
walking in procession round the church, imploring
God's mercy. While the procession advances its
ranks are thinning, and the crowd of dying and
dead who lie thereabout is increasing. For
myself, I look always upon my body, expecting to
perceive thereon the black forerunners of disease
and death. I know I shall die. God have mercy
on my soul ! A man who thinks he will save his
life if he quit this kingdom of death will bring
this letter. May it reach your hands ! Pax
teaun ! "

" God be orracious unto us ! " said the Knight

o o

in a deep voice. " The letter is already old.
Perhaps the great slayer is near us even now. It
is hard to have wife and children in times like
this."

"Love nothing earthly," said the Father; "and
the gate of death has no terrors."

" I have seen the Plague near enough," con-
tinued the Kniofht. " I have wandered in southern
towns among heaps of dead, carried the sick on
my back, felt their breath mingle with mine, and

I still live."

137

Singoalla

" Our fate is in God's hand. . . ." With this
thought the Father put away from his soul the
horror with which the evil news had at first struck
him, and breathed freely again.

" You are right, our fate is in God's hand.
Reverend Father, were my page Benoni here, we
might cheer our hearts with a cup of good wine.
He will, however, soon come, as he never fails to
do his duty well."

And the Knight looked out of the window.
His heart, which had fought hard with itself, had
now utterly abandoned itself to such affection for
Benoni that it longed for him every moment he
was away. This feeling was mysterious and inex-
plicable. From Benoni's eyes shone Benoni's own
soul. And, at first with awe, he saw in them a
likeness to those of Singoalla, and remembered
her as a heathen, and the evil done to his body
by the poisoned draught, and to his soul by tales
of sorcery, treachery, sacrilege, and murder ; re-
membered the heathen oath he had broken, and
the curse that should reach him if he broke it.
Then the thouorht of Benoni seemed to hallow

these memories, and it seemed as if kindness to

138

y

Zbc Cave

him might atone for the wrong he had done un-
willingly to Singoalla.

But let us leave the Knight and follow Benoni
in the forest. He sped so quickly amongst the
pine-trees, which fringed the shores of the lake,
that his pale cheeks were reddened by the exercise.
At last he reached a steep pile of rocks, split and
torn ages and ages ago from their hill, and propped
and heaped together in huge confusion.

Benoni made his way through this maze of
rocks, climbed up and down, and at last stood in a
cave where a dim licjht found its way between
slabs of rock flung like a roof over leaning blocks
of granite. Kack had followed the boy on his
way, where it led half hidden among brushwood
and thickets.

The cave was Inhabited. A couch of moss,
covered with skins of the beasts of the forest, lay
along the uneven walls. A flat stone in the middle
of the cave did duty for a table. On the ground
lay a bow, a bundle of arrows, and a sword, and
near them charred boughs on a heap of embers
and ashes.

Two figures were sitting within the twilight

139

Sinooalla

when Benoni and Kack arrived. One was a man,
lean and swarthy, whose hollow eyes peered
dimly through the gloom. The other was a
woman, dark and lean like the man. Both were
silent and stared straight before them. Unspeak-
able suffering was stamped on every feature of
this woman, the weariness of pain had left its mark
on her form. But her beauty still shone dimly
through a fixed sorrow, beauty saddened by a
hint of decay.

" Benoni is come," said the man, for the woman
had not heard the sound of the boy's footsteps, nor
seen even that Kack had lain down on the moss
couch beside her, and yawned and stretched himself
as if at home.

The woman started and looked up. Benoni
had twined his arms round her neck, kissed her
mouth, eyes, and forehead, and pressed his cheek
to hers, saying :

" Dear mother, I bring you good news."

Sinofoalla — for it was she — answered with
brightened face :

"Good news? Can you give me a ray of sun-
light, son of a cruel father? Child of sorrow, my

140

Zbc Cave.

Sittgoalia.]

[Face p. 140.

.\ ■ > '^ --^ *-< V

' or THE

JMiVcRSlTY

or

^hc Cave

darling-, give him back to me, and may he never
leave me again ! "

Singoalla seized Benoni's hand and passed it
across her forehead.

" My father hates me no longer," said Benoni.
This was the s^ood news he brouo^ht.

" Assim ! " cried Singoalla to the dark man; " do
you hear ? Erland no longer hates Singoalla's son
and his."

"I hear," replied the man dully; "thus the
power can work. Let it work soon ! "

" Hates you no longer," repeated Singoalla with
unbounded delight. " Has he called you son — has
he any suspicion that you are his son ? Does he
not say sometimes that you are like Singoalla ?
Has he never named me to you ? Surely he has."

"No."

Singoalla laid her hand on her forehead.
" No," she said in a lower voice, " I might know
that. . . . Benoni, is Lady Helen very beautiful ?
Does the Knight often caress his wife ? Does he
love her much ? "

"Yes," replied Benoni. Singoalla turned away

her face and hid it against the cold rock.

141

SiuGoalla

" Let the power work ! " Assim's voice was
heard to say.

"Do not be sad, mother," implored Benoni,
caressino- Sino^oalla till she turned her face towards
him.

" Ay," exclaimed Singoalla, rising. " The power
shall work. Benoni, you shall bring your father to
me.

"If God give me strength."
^ "You have it," replied the mother; "you have

the strength which Alako grants to his chosen ones.
You can do great things with the power. You are
a son of the warm South and the cold North. You
are the son of troth and treachery, of heathen and
Christian, of light and darkness, of youth's first love
L and strength. Poor Benoni ! Why are you here ?

You are a knight's son, and a castle should be your
dwelling-place, velvet your dress, and gold spurs
ring on your heels. But you were born to sorrow,
not to joy. The lines of your hand, the arch of
your forehead, the net-work of the veins of your
eyelids foredoom you to woe and sighing. Your
cheek is pale like a flower that grows in shade.

In sorrow you were born, a sighing breast nourished

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^be Cave

you. Your mother's kiss was salt with tears.
Benoni, you shall bring your father to me. He
has sworn me fidelity on Alako's image ; he is
mine. I have a right to shed his blood, to shut
him out from heaven if his God and yours is my
God. You shall bring him to me this very night,
Benoni. He shall be made to answer for his faith-
lessness and cruelty. Oh, if he has a heart, he will
weep over your pale cheeks and shudder at the
agony of your poor mother."

" I will bring my father to you, but Assim must
not kill him," said Benoni.

"As your mother commands," said Assim dryly,
giving a kick to the sword which lay on the ground.
" I have promised to be your mother's slave, though
to her my fidelity is less than the perfidy of your
father."'

"Hush!" cried Benoni to Assim; "if you are
my mother's slave, you should keep silence."

" I am the son of a prince, and her slave."

"I leave you, mother; the Knight is waiting
for me. To-night I shall come back with my
father."

"See," said Assim, "on that large flat stone

143

Sinooalla

there are seeds that I have gathered at full-moon.
Put them into the Knight's cup, and he will more
easily obey you."

Benoni hesitated.

" Take them," said Singoalla; "the seeds Assim
gathers are not all poisonous."

At these words Assim cast down his eyes.
Benoni picked up the seeds Assim had gathered.

"Mother," said Benoni anxiously, "one word
more ! Have you had a revelation of where I am
to find more of the buried treasures of the
monastery ? "

" I have had a new revelation, and after a week
I will show you the place where you will find the
Mass cup."

Singoalla kissed Benoni. The boy called Kack,
who was nearly asleep, left the cave, and hurried
throuQ^h the forest to the castle.

When he was gone, Singoalla said to Assim :

" Up, take the spade and the Mass cup! Bury
it under the loose tree-root that I showed you
where the brook falls into the lake. Benoni's soul
must not be defiled by a lie."

Assim rolled away a stone from over a hole in

144

Zlbe Cave

which lay the stolen treasures of the monastery.
He took out the Mass cup, let the rest remain,
moved back the stone over the hole, seized a spade,
and departed.

With these stolen treasures Assim had aban-
doned his people, after being for some time their
chief, when Singoalla's father had fallen in a fight
with the people of the sea-coast of Jutland. During
this time Singoalla had followed Assim, and people
thought they were man and wife. But it was
not so, for Assim's love was scorned by Singoalla,
and he was her slave.

But Benoni believed it was by a revelation from
God that the holy crown had been found again in
the forest.

145 10

IV.

The Secret Power.

EN ON I returned to the castle while the

Prior and the Knight were still sitting in

gloomy conversation at the table in the

tower-chamber. Benoni filled their cups, and the

Prior emptied his boldly, because it was presented

to him by a pious pilgrim.

After the meal the Prior returned to the
monastery. Neither he nor the Knight had spoken
to Lady Helen or the lackeys and servants about
the dismal tidings that had come from Norway, for
they had no wish to frighten any one needlessly.

Erland, followed by Benoni, went to the
tower-chamber to enjoy his night's rest. Benoni's
heart trembled, for he had mixed Assim's magic
seeds in the Knight's drink; trembled because
Singoalla and Assim had told him that by his
hidden power he must bring his father to his mother
that night. This power is known now, but its

146

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mystery is not yet unveiled. Men of science can
track a nerve to its end with the microscope, and
know how the earth moves along her path through
space, or how a drop of water moves in a capillary
tube, but they have not yet found the secret of
this power. But the Brahmins of India and the
people of Assaria knew it and used it before
Mesmer stumbled upon it. The people of Assaria,
unquestioning, left it as they found it — a mystery.

In Benoni this power was strong; his mother
had discovered that. When her heart was rent by
agonies and sleep fled from her, Benoni used to
pass his hands over her face, and sleep came, and
her heart was rocked to rest for a while.

The Knight was now asleep, as his breath-
ing told. The hour-glass whispered, the stars
peeped through the tower-window. Benoni rose
from his mat and stole with noiseless steps to
E Hand's bed. The lad's heart beat violently.
His hands were lifted hesitatingly ; they glided
like shadows over the Knight's forehead down to
his breast. The hour-glass kept up its whisper,
the stars twinkled. All was still ; even the
Knight's breathing ceased. He slept like a dead

147

SiuGoalla

man, and the starlight quivered on his pale fore-
head. Like shadows Benoni's hands glided over
the Knight's face, then the Knight arose and
Benoni shrunk back, and with a half-stifled cry
threw himself on his knees. The Knight's eyes
were shut.

"Sir," whispered Benoni, "I work you no
harm. Do not be angry!"

The Knight made no reply.

Then Benoni perceived that the power had
worked. He rose and said calmly :

" Knight, leave your bed and follow me."

"Whither will you lead me, Benoni?"

" You shall learn."

The Knight put on his clothes. Benoni took
hold of his hand.

They descended the tower stairs and came, by a

postern, to where the Knight's fishing-boats were

lying. Benoni rowed him across the sound in the

smallest of the boats with strokes so noiseless

that the watchman did not hear them. Then he

took hold of the Knight's hand and led him into

the forest.

The hidden power so worked that the Knight's

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Zbc Secret power

will, however strong and inflexible otherwise, bent
itself to the boy's, and became one with it. The
Knight's soul looked into Benoni's just as the
faithful servant sees by his master's eyes what he
wishes, thinks, and feels. Soon the secret power
was to work still deeper. As, in the growing tree,
each year a ring grows round its heart and dries
up as new ones settle round it, so man's life is
yearly ringed about with passions, feelings, and
thoughts which in turn grow old and dry, as new
passions, feelings, and thoughts setde round them.
And the oldest rings of the soul lie nearest her
heart, and that is why the recollections of child-
hood are so sweet : they are nearest the heart of
the soul. So, while the boy was leading Erland
through trees of the forest, the secret power struck
deeper and deeper into his being through the dry
enfolding years. And as it struck, withered and
forgotten passions bloomed again and swelled with
sap from the root of memory. Erland was again
the man he had been ten years ago, when he
gathered flowers with the brown girl by the borders
of the brook. The shadow that had dwelt deep

down in his soul rose up into brightest light and

149

Singoalla

feeling. The thrill of youthful love, sweetest of all
passions, and which never returns, quivered through
his being, and he thought and felt "Singoalla."

" Benoni," said the Knight when they had come
some little way into the forest, "let us sit down
and rest. The night is beautiful. Do you see the
star that glistens up there over the top of the oak ?
I love you as a son, as if you were my little Erland;
nay, I love you more, pale child, and I see that you
love me from your soul. The night is so beautiful
and fresh. Where are you leading me, Benoni ?
I will follow you to the end of the world."

'' I am leading you to my mother."

"Does your mother live in the forest?"

"Yes."

" Oh that you were my son ! Are you not my
son :

" I am your son," replied Benoni, touched,
dazed, and bewildered by these sweet words.

"Who is your mother? Is she Singoalla . . .
Sinooalla . . . Sinooalla ? "

The ring in his voice grew softer and softer.

"Yes, my mother is Singoalla."

" Oh, God ! " said the Knight, and tears trickled

150

Zbc Secret power

from his half-closed eyes, *' I am so happy. Dear
son, why did I not know you at once ? You have
been a stranger in your father's house, you have
suffered greatly from his unkind wrath. But I see
in your soul that you do not hate me. No, you
love me. and are glad at my words. Come,
Benoni, I will go to your mother."

And they walked on. Benoni trembled in the
darkness — trembled with joy, as sometimes happens
when happiness comes like a flood of sunlight pour-
ing into blind eyes which have suddenly been
opened, — trembled, too, with sadness, for the
Knight was so pale, so changed, and his voice so
ghostly. It was like a dream, as if a strange soul
had spoken through his mouth.

They stopped before the pile of rocks. Benoni
took hold of his father's hand and led him into the
labyrinth. The light of a fire shone and dis-
appeared, hidden by rocks, and reappeared. It
came from the cave.

"How I tremble!" muttered the Knight: "does
the beloved one of my soul live among these
rocks ?"

The noise of the steps of the Knight and the

151

Singoalla

pilgrim announced their arrival to the inmates of
the lonely habitation. Singoalla was seated on the
moss-couch, the firelight flickered on the damp
walls of rock, and touched her cheeks with a show
of colour. Assim sat in his old place with folded
arms. He had just whetted his sword on a ledge
of rock. It now hung naked in his belt.

" Listen," whispered Singoalla, who, ever since
twilight, had been listening and waiting, waiting
and listening ; "hearken ! They are coming. Assim,
go now ! " Assim arose.

" I will stay in the shadow," he said. " If
you wish him to die, stir the fire for signal. My
sword is sharp, my hand sure, and this bear of
the north will fall and not know who struck
him."

"Go, go!" whispered Singoalla. Assim dis-
appeared.

The next moment the Knight and Benoni

entered. Singoalla stood before Erland. She

looked at him. . . . Who can describe that look ?

A life with all its fortune, delight, and sorrow,

with all its rich treasure of passion and feeling, may

be concentrated in a look, as a lens gathers and

152

Zl)c Secret power

focuses the beams of the sun. Past, present, and
future may be blended in one look. They were
blended in that of Singoalla into one question —
proud and crushing and tremulous.

It asked of memory and forgetfulness, of love
and hate, of tears and blood. The Knight felt his
eyelids drop and burn as her eyes questioned him
thus.

"Singoalla!" uttered Erland.

The tone in his voice answered all that Sin-
goalla's soul had asked. He came with remem-
brance, love, and entreaty for forgiveness. How,
then, could she crush him with taunts of perjury,
revenge, and death ? Singoalla s head sank on her
bosom, and her gloomy brow was hidden in her
thin, worn hands.

" Singoalla," repeated Erland, and tears welled
from beneath his eyelashes.

Singoalla made no reply. She stood like a pale
statue ; her bosom and its sighs alone showed that
she was alive.

The Knight took Benoni into his arms and

made a step towards Singoalla. Their heads leaned

against each other. Erland's brown curls mingled,

153 '

Singoalla

as of old, with the black waves that rippled over
Singoalla's forehead.

• •••••

The cave was still. Where now are the agony,
wrath, and bitter memories that had dwelt there ?
Where now the sighs of sorrow that had echoed
there ? Where the wild cries that had burst from
Singoalla's breast when the burden of her despair
grew unbearable ? Now only a sob was heard
from time to time. Erland put his arm round
Singoalla and whispered — she did not hear
what — and it sounded as a breath of wind that
rocks itself to sleep in the crown of the birch-
tree.

But Assim's eyes gleamed outside the cave.
He gnashed his teeth with pain. He desired
Singoalla's happiness, but for him, the scorned lover,
to see this happiness! He would rather die by
fire!

Singoalla passed her hand over Erland's face ;
and asked in a whisper, with tearful eyes, tender,
strange questions :

" Why are you so pale, Erland ? Why have
the roses of your cheek withered ? Whither has

154

Zhc Secret power

your youth flown ? I dreamed you were still seven-
teen, Erland, have you been unhappy ? "

"Where have you been so long, Singoalla?"
asked Erland in return. " Do you remember the
home of our happiness, where the pine-tree
whispered and the brook murmured ? Ah ! the
pine still whispers, the brook still murmurs. The
past has returned, we are young again. Come,
Singoalla, let us play, and gather flowers by the
banks of the brook ! The hour of meeting is come ;
the stars in the heavens are twinkling. Can you
not see them ? "

Erland took hold of Singoalla's hand and led
her out of the cave. Scarcely thinking, conscious
of a feeling of bliss only, Singoalla followed him.
She wandered with drooping brow dreamingly by
the Knight's side. She did not see either the
stars or the trees between which she passed. Oh,
might this happiness never end ! Would they might
play by the brook and die ere the morning came
with its cold light and cruel reality! Night, with its
dreams, ecstasies, flickering shadows, and twinkling
stars, the feeling of vagueness and vastness, and
enwrapping all, the dear dreams which have their

155

Singoalla

birth in the bosom of darkness — what is the sun
with his golden light, day with all it has to show —
its cold truth — to these !

Benoni accompanied his father and mother.
His little face shone. A power unknown stirred
in his bosom and made him sing, and the song
sounded as if it were meant only for the spirits that
hover through the night.

They came to the hill near the brook; it was
not far from the cave. Erland and Singoalla sat
down on the grassy turf at the foot of the hill
where they had sat of yore. But they could
not play nor gather flowers ; they only rested,
almost as if benumbed, leaning against each other.
They could not speak, but only sigh, and —
half- waking, half- dreaming — felt each other's
presence.

But Benoni sat down at the brink of the brook,
looked at the stars which were reflected in it, and
sang to them.

Thus the hours passed, and the stars, one after
another, grew dim in the western haze. A grey
fog mingled with the gloom ; the ground was
moistened with morning dew.

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Then Benoni went up to his father, put his
hand upon his shoulder, and said to him :

" The night is far spent. Up, and follow
me !

The Knight awoke from his trance with pain;
his will bent to Benoni's ; he was obliged to
obey.

This Benoni did because it was already long
past midnight, and the secret power by means
of which Benoni's soul ruled the Knight began to
wane. The boy felt this from the chilliness and
weakness of his limbs. J

" Mother," said he to Singoalla, "come! I am
faint and cold. We must make haste."

"Say farewell, mother! We must make haste,"
repeated Benoni anxiously.

Singoalla arose.

" Farewell," she whispered to the Knight.

"No, no," said Erland ; "here we will stay
for ever."

"We shall meet again. Farewell!"

"Flee, mother! Do not tarry!" urged Benoni.

"Come," said the boy; "you must follow me,

father."

157

Singoalla

And Benoni took hold of his hand, and he
was obliged to follow. With speedy steps they
returned to the castle, rowed across the sound,
mounted the tower-stairs, and entered the bed-
chamber.

"Take off your clothes, and sleep!" ordered
Benoni. The Knight obeyed. Benoni wrapped
himself up in his quilt, lay down on his mat, and
fell asleep at once.

The hour-glass was still whispering, the paling
stars peeped into the tower-chamber, the Knight
was asleep in his bed, the pilgrim on his mat.

An hour later day dawned. The birds tuned
their songs; the servants of the castle awoke; and
from the forest came the ring of the woodman's
busy axe.

158

V.

Day and Night.

HE Knight awoke with a feeling of
heaviness. Benoni, too, awoke the
moment after, tired, but with an echo of
the happiness of the past night in his breast.
"Father!" he was nearly saying to Erland, for
he well remembered the words of fatherly love the
Knight had spoken in the night. But the word
" father " died on the boy's lips as he glanced up
and perceived the gloomy look on the Knight's face.

The Knight woke with an oath. " I dreamed
a fearful dream last night. Evil spirits have
harassed me. One of them bore the features
of — you, Benoni."

Erland speedily dressed and hurried out to
refresh himself in the morning breeze. All day
long he was gloomy. He spoke little to his wife
Helen, and to Benoni still less, he did not caress
his little son, and often scolded his servants.

159

Singoalla

Towards evening Erland rode out. Benoni
hastened to the cave in the forest. Singoalia was
sitting there, still dazed by the memories of the
past night. Assim was cooking food in a kettle
hung over the fire, and said nothing.

Singoalia pressed Benoni to her bosom, covered
him with kisses, and asked for his father.

" My father ! " replied Benoni. " Ah, I may
not call him father to-day. He is angry, and says
that he has dreamed an evil dream last night."

" Did he say it was evil ? " asked Singoalia,
broodingly.

"Yes."

"That cannot be. He loves me. Our fore-
fathers have said that when the secret power
works, a man shows his very soul. No, his heart
loves me dearly. Oh, that night, that happy
night ! Benoni, you shall bring again my Knight
to me to-night. But before that I will show myself
to him, and prove to you that he loves me still.
Come, Benoni, I am going to the castle."

"Mother," cried Benoni, "you are only making

sorrow for yourself. Remember the Knight's wife,

Lady Helen ! "

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"She!" broke in Singoalla, and her eyes
flashed. " I am the Knight's first and only wife,
as truly as there lives a God in heaven. He does
not love her ; he cannot. Did you not see, did you
not hear last night ? Me — me alone — does his soul
love. I will go to him."

All Benoni said was useless. She went, and
Benoni followed her, crying and entreating. She
went, for doubt to which she longed to give the
lie, jealousy which she flouted in vain, were awake
in her mind. Assim shouldered his bow and
followed her at a distance.

After wandering a while, Singoalla, accompanied
by Benoni, came to a gently sloping height, over
which lay her way. On reaching the top she
stopped, for she saw below the Knight on his horse.
His face was gloomy and terrifying; his horse was
covered with foam, and a bow hung at his saddle.

He saw her, stopped, passed his hand across his
eyes, gazed at her, and cried out :

" Damned sprite ! Heathen witch ! Do you
persecute me even in daylight ? "

And he seized his bow, laid an arrow on the

string, and loosed it.

i6i II

Singoalla

But Singoalla was already gone. Assim had
dashed forth, snatched her away, and carried her
out of sight. Then Assim bent his bow and flew
back to requite the shot, but by that time the
Knight was out of range.

When Assim came back, Singoalla was sitting
on the green moss, staring before her. Benoni sat
beside her, silent, and longing for death.

"Singoalla," said Assim, bending over her.
" Shall I kill Erland ? I have a poisoned arrow
in my quiver, and my aim is good."

** I have a right to his blood. Kill him ! " said
Singoalla.

Assim left her. His eyes shone with joy.
There was even yet hope for him.

But his joy was brief. Singoalla called him
back. Assim came.

" No, Assim ! Not yet, Assim ! " said Singo-
alla. " No, not yet ! " she repeated, and laid her
hand on her forehead while she thousfht. " Benoni
shall to-night lead the traitor to me, and I will then
judge him, and if the sentence be death, you, Assim,
shall kill him. . . ."

"Ha!" she added, rising proudly; "the fair-

162

Ba^ anb IFliobt

haired woman, his blue-eyed Helen, holds him in
the daytime ; but mine, mine he is in the night,
for he is the slave of Benoni's power. Farewell,
Benoni. I will wait for you and him to-night.
To-night shall his doom be spoken."

The evening hours were long for Singoalla, as
she sat by the log-fire, waiting in the cave for that
hour of doom. " Benoni, apple of mine eye, your
strength will not fail . . ." so she spoke to herself.
"Grind on ! . . ." said she to Assim, who un-
weariedly, and with the calmness of desperation,
kept sharpening his sword on a rock.

But for Benoni, too, how long were the hours
for him ! How weird the time when the Knight
again yielded to his power ! How awful this wan-
dering- in the nis^ht in the forest at his father's side !

"Benoni, my son . . ." were the words that
fell from the Knight's lips. But Benoni shuddered
at them. They were not his father's, but those of
an illusive ghost speaking with his father's tongue.

"Benoni, you know not how I love you," said
the Knight, as they walked in the night.

"No, let go my hand! You must not touch

me. I will not be your son."

163

Singoalla

" The night is dark, clouds are sailing across the
sky . . . and you, Benoni, speak words which
freeze my blood. Do you see the clouds in the
sky, my own Benoni ? "

"Yes, it is beginning to rain. Hasten! I will
bring you to my unhappy mother."

The rain fell in streams. There was a rustle in
the forest ; no star lit their lonely path. Night-
birds screeched from the clefts, and by the boy's
side walked a pale phantom with half-closed eyes.

They came to the pile of rocks. Benoni
stopped, and another shudder thrilled through his
limbs. He thought of Assim's sword, of the doom
which was awaiting his father, and he stopped and
wished himself dead.

" Benoni, give me your hand. You are leading
me to Singoalla, are you not ? Unkind Benoni !
I will tell your mother of your bitter words to your
father," was the Knight's caressing threat.

But Benoni wept.

"Why do you weep? Why are you angry
with me ? Come, Benoni ! Calm yourself I will
not blame you to Singoalla."

And the Knight made as if to enter the rocks.

164

Da^ an^ IRiabt

But the will of Benoni kept him back, and he
cried out in haste :

" No, stay ! Are you not afraid, Sir Erland ? "

"The wind is blowing in the forest, but who is
afraid of wind and darkness ? " replied the Knight
"You are only a child, boy."

" Do you not hear what the wind is telling ?
It is a sad tale, and should make you afraid."

"What is the wind saying? Tell me its tale.
I will listen gladly if you will wipe away your tears
and be happy."

While the Knight was speaking thus, he leaned
against a rock, smiled, and lifted his forehead
towards the dark sky. A shadow peeped from
the pile of rocks.

"The wind says, 'My mother bore me one
night in the churchyard. She was seeking for the
grave of her husband, but he was not dead.'"

"Did you hear the wind say this, strange boy?
What is it saying now ? "

"The wind says, ' My father was a knight who

ranged the wide world over — a man of fickle mind

and faithless.'"

"Then the wind is like its father."

165

Singoalla

" My mother sought him out and wandered
from country to country, but found him not. She
believed she was beloved and sought by him. She
thought he was very unhappy, and wept for him,
and her tears fell like dew on the meadow, like rain
on the mountains."

" Did the wind say this ? But what is it saying
now ? I hear it only blustering through the
forest."

" The wind says, ' My father was not unhappy,
for he had forgotten my mother, and did not seek
for her. He loved another — a woman who came
from the North.'"

"The wind has a faithless father," said the
Knight. " But hark how it is moaning in the
forest ! The wind is speaking again. What does
it say now ? "

" The wind says, ' I was nursed at a sighing
breast ; I was lulled to rest by songs of sorrow.
My mother is very unhappy.' "

The Knight bowed his head and folded his
arms across his breast.

" Benoni," he said, "you who understand the

language of the wind, what is it saying now ? It

i66

Da^ an^ IRitjbt

is shouting now, and angry, and the tree-tops are
trembling."

The shadow drew nearer to the speakers.

Benoni replied :

" The wind says, * My father tried to kill my
mother to-day ; he shot an arrow at her breast, but
she fled. Why do you hate my mother ? What
has she done to offend you ? Answer me, Knight.'"

The Knight bent his head to his breast and
said :

" Benoni, did your mother say that it was night
when you were born ? Did she say she bore you
among the graves of the dead while she was seek-
ing your father's grave?"

"Yes."

" The mist disperses and I am gazing into two
worlds. I know now who I am when the sun is in
the sky. I am mad during the day, Benoni. I
wanted to kill your mother. I hate your mother in
the day-time, for then I am mad. Will not your
mother kill me for my faithlessness, my cruelty, for
all the agony I have caused her ? Benoni, ask your
mother if she wants to take my life. It is her

right. "

167

Stnooalla

But Benoni replied :

"Do you hear how the wind is wailing? Can
I lead my father to death ? "

And Benoni, shuddering at the thought of
Assim's sword, grasped the Knight's hand to flee
with him back to the castle.

Then the listening shadow stepped forth from
the gloom.

"Flee," it whispered to Benoni, "for Assim
rages and scents blood. He is lying in wait at
the entrance of the cave. I have aroused but can-
not lull his anger."

The Knight recognised the voice of the whisper-
ing shadow, turned round, and tried to seize its
gown.

But it repeated anxiously, " Flee, Benoni !
Assim hears us."

Benoni hastened forwards, and the Knight was
obliged to follow, though his soul was in an agony.

But Singoalla too — for she it was who had
appeared like a fitful shadow — followed Benoni,
and when they were at some way from the rock
where danger and death lurked, begged him to

stay.

i68

2)a\> anb IRtobt

The Knight sank at Singoalla's feet and
embraced her knees.

Singoalla stooped over him and stroked his
locks.

"Erland," she said, "we see each other for the
last time on earth. Farewell, my beloved ! "

"Must I die?"

"No," replied Singoalla. "I meant truly to
kill you to-night, but then my soul was black with
wrath and despair. Now you shall live, Erland,
for your wife and son. You love Helen, do you
not? and she loves you. . . . And your little
son, tell me, is he more like you or your blue-
eyed Helen ? I Vvould like to caress your little
son."

"Hush!" exclaimed Erland. "Do not speak
of Helen ! During the day when my wits are
confounded, truly I live in peace with her. But
you, Singoalla, are my only real love, as you are
my first and rightful wife."

" Do not deceive me," said Singoalla beseech-

ingly; "speak not so, or I shall again cherish hopes

which will be disappointed afterwards, and which

will leave wrath and despair in their train ! Was

169

SinQoalla

I not misled by your words when Benoni at first
led you to me ? I believed you always loved me,
and that it was your bliss to look upon me. Then
I determined to seek you. But you shuddered at
the very sight of me, and were angry and wanted
to kill me. Erland, you hate me during the day;
you can love me only by night, when the secret
power of Benoni has enchained your will."

"There is truth in your words, but not the
whole truth, for now my mind is clear," said the
Knight. " I am not the same man during the day
as when I am with you. In the day-time I am un-
happy and not in my right mind ; no, not in my right
mind. Do you remember Assim and your father ?
For the evil they did me, my dazed soul blamed you.
To my morbid thoughts you became an unfading
image of terror, and your own sweet name, Singo-
alla, had for mine ears a ring of dread. Then there
came a girl who was my childhood's friend and my
nurse when I lay sick. I thought I loved her; but
you were always the woman I loved, my wife; it
was you who wore a mask like Helen's face. No,
I never loved Helen, but you in Helen; that I

know now. Singoalla, if you will not kill me for

170

Da^ anb IRiobt

the sake of justice, of my broken oath, and the
agony I have caused you, kill me for my own sake,
for I shudder at the thought of the morrow. I will
not awake to madness and hatred of you who are
the very soul of my soul."

Singoalla replied :

"Your perjury is forgiven; you shall not die.

Nor shall your words lure me to believe that you

love not Helen, at least during the day, and when

you are not in your right mind. What matters it

that you are mad, Erland, as long as you are happy?

Behold, I came to this neighbourhood and sent you

my son to subdue your soul through gentleness (for

on an unkind soul the secret power will not work),

and then lead you to me. I took up my abode in

yonder cave, and waited for you eleven days. I

longed to see you and speak with you once more

before my death; for I feel I shall soon die. That

was the recompense I demanded from God for all

the sorrows I had suffered, and this recompense

God in His mercy has given me. What more do

I want for myself? It is harder to think of Benoni,

for what will become of him when I am dead? In

the day-time, when your soul is hostile, he is no

171

Singoalla

longer your son. But God will protect Benoni if
he keep his soul snow-white, and Benoni, too, will
not live long. I have seen that in the lines of your
fate, my pale, beloved boy ! . . . No, Erland, to-
night we part for ever. To-morrow, when you
awake, you will remember me as an evil dream,
whose memory is carried away by the day's breath.
The image of Singoalla shall no more disturb your
thoughts, her name never more sound in your ears ;
she will have vanished as completely as if she had
never been. But should she ever come back to
your soul, in a moment of loneliness, then remember
her not as a revengeful, heathen woman, nor as a
sorrowing one ; but think of her rather as one who
forgave, and who rejoices at the night of love you
gave her in the cave by the margin of the brook !
Your life with Helen shall flow like a calm river
through green meadows beneath cooling shade.
Your Erland shall grow up to be the joy of
your old age. Your house shall long be in the
land, and the blessing of your God shall abide
with it."

" Farewell, Erland ! " she went on to say.

" Farewell, boy at the brook ! Farewell, my first

172

2)a^ anb IRiobt

and only love ! Farewell, my happiness and my
bane ! Blessed be you, my husband ! Blessed be
you, my joy, my sunlight, my spirit, mine all ! "

And Singoalla pressed the kiss she thought
would be her last on Erland's lips, and hurried
away.

Tears were streaming down Erland's cheeks;
he wrung his hands and called her name aloud; but
she was gone, and Benoni's power chained him to
the spot.

Then Erland burst out into such cries of woe
that they pierced Benoni's marrow. The little lad
trembled and felt his power wane, his will weaken,
his heart melt.

" Benoni," cried the Knight, " I will crush you
if you do not swear by God to lead me back to
Singoalla next night and every night."

" I swear," sighed Benoni, almost fainting.

" Quick ! Let us return to the castle before I
awake ! I feel that your power is waning, and I
shall soon awake. Make haste, or else we shall be
lost."

Benoni walked with swift strides. Erland fol-
lowed him. Scarcely a quarter of an hour after

173

Stngoalla

wards the Knight was resting in his bed and the
pilgrim on his mat.

But Assim in vain lay in wait for his prey out-
side the cave with the sharp-ground sword in his
hand. When Singoalla came back to the cave she
said only, "The Knight will not come." Assim
struck his sword so hard against the rock that it
broke at the hilt, then hurried to the shore and
beguiled the night by mocking the night-birds and
rolling stones down rocks into the lake.

174

VI.

The Last Night-Wandering.

EN ON I kept his oath.

And Singoalla — she who had already-
reconciled herself to the thought of
eternal separation and death — soon forgot her
resolution when the Knight returned next night
led by Benoni, and entreated her to stay. He
said that madness and Helen held him durino-
the day, but he would belong to bliss and Singo-
alla by night. He called her wife, and begged
her to keep the oath she had sworn on the
image of Alako, even though he himself had been
forced by evil powers to break his. How sweet
were his caresses to the unhappy being whose all
he had been from her young years ! How beautiful
were these nights, thrilled through by the feeling of
their meeting in secret, when they whispered to
each other in the cave, or, in infinite wistfulness, sat
hand in hand on the banks of the brook ! Sinoro-

175

Stngoalla

alia could not resist ; she stayed, and the hours were
to her like a fantastic dream.

On the twentieth day after the pilgrim's arrival
at the castle of Eko, he returned from the forest
with the Mass-chalice in his hand. It was delivered
to the Prior, and all wondered at the truth of the
revelation and the power of the penance.

But in Erland a change took place, which
became more evident every day. Formerly he
had been melancholy at times, now he was so from
morning till night. He grew fearfully thin; his
eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow ; every day
ploughed a furrow in his brow, every hour poured
oil on the awful fire in his bosom. The servants
quaked when he approached; Lady Helen dared no
longer ask what it was that consumed him, for he
seemed to foreknow, as it were, when such a ques-
tion was on her lips, and then withdrew from her.
He was cold to his wife's sad looks, shunned her
caresses, and had no eyes for his little son. He
seldom spoke a word to anybody.

Lady Helen disclosed to the Prior her anxiety

for Erland, and consulted him as to what ought to

be done to save him, for clearly this melancholy was

176

Cbc last IHiiibt lUan^cnnc^.

Sinsoalla.\

[Face p. 176.

ZTbc Xast 1Riobt*Man^erinQ

hurrying him to the grave. The Prior resolved to
speak frankly to the Knight, and to urge him to
complete confession.

" Does any sin oppress your soul, my son ? Or
what is it that makes you despair ? Do not brood
over your pain, or death of the soul as well as
of the body may come of it ! Flee into the arms of
God and Holy Church! Lo, she is willing, as you
know, to take your guilt and your sorrow upon her."

Thus spake the Prior to the Knight. But the
Knight replied, "Vex me not with such words,
reverend Father ! Speak not again of it, or I shall
leave you and flee to other lands. Leave me in
peace. When the time comes, I will confess."

Another time, when the Knight seemed in a

somewhat calmer mood, he said to the Prior, " My

soul is full of broken pictures. I strive to put them

together again ; that is why my brains are so

racked. When the picture is made ready, I shall

see what I wish to see ; I shall know what I wish

to know. Then only shall I be able to confess, for

one cannot confess the unknown."

During these days Benoni, according to his

wont, waited on Erland, but he had now no more

177 12

£/.,

Singoalla

leisure, for the Knight would hardly ever let him
out of his sight. But if he had no leisure, his hours
were the more bitter. When the Knight looked
at him his glance burned with suppressed threats,
fear, and fierce mistrust. He awaited Benoni's
every word, watched his every movement. When
they were alone, he would rise, grip Benoni's arms,
and lift him from the floor to fling him back to it.
But he remembered, and it ended with more blue
marks on Benoni's arms.

Benoni suffered greatly. His cheeks grew paler
than ever, and he became almost a shadow. But
he endured patiently the Knight's ill-treatment,
counted the hours of the day, and thought with
joy that when night came his grim face would
grow kind, his wild look gentle, and his dumb lips
call him son, and tell him that he loved him dearly.
The night was Benoni's day, and the day was his
night. During the day his mother sat alone with
the silent Assim in the forest ; during the day his
father and he were unhappy ; but the night made
the three drunk with happiness.

With the Knight it came to such a pass that he

fell into a fever, in which he once started from his

178

Zbc %aet 1RiGbt^Man^erino

bed, and would have sent his sword through
Benoni. The boy was saved by the Prior and
another monk who watched by the bed of the
sick man. During the excitement occasioned by
the fever, the Knight spoke often of a cave and a
hill on which a pine-tree grew; sometimes he called
Benoni " Son," sometimes "Little devil." Indeed,
his fever was violent, and his brain filled with
disordered visions.

Through these days Singoalla in vain waited
for her knight; but Benoni often went to see her.

When Erland grew well, he resolved to make
confession. The Prior was not a little frightened
when the Knight confessed that he was possessed
of two devils. One had appeared to him in the
guise of a woman; the other in the shape of
Benoni, doubtless to bring to scorn the pilgrim and
his pious errand.

Father Henry, in secret, called the Knight to
the monastery chapel, and conjured the evil powers
to yield. The Knight felt relieved, and thought
himself quit of them.

But on the following day the trouble came back.

When he awoke in the morning, the Knight

179

Singoalla

remembered that he had all night long been
harassed by the two evil spirits.

Not long afterwards it came to pass that Erland
awoke, not in his bed but in the forest. All about
was lit by pale moonlight, but when, in his amaze-
ment, he looked round, he saw a flitting shape like
Benoni. How had they come into the forest ? He
wasted no time in thought, but hurried after the
phantom. But when the Knight opened the door of
the tower-chamber, the little pilgrim lay on his mat.

After this Erland's thoughts moved in their old
path. He strove unceasingly to piece together the
broken images in his soul, and make them fit in one
whole. He sfathered tog^ether all his memories of
the trances of the night, chose those which agreed,
threw aside the rest, watched more closely Benoni's
behaviour, and made up his mind to lie awake and
watch.

This resolution, however, he was not able to
keep. When evening came, he felt so languid that,
try as he would, he could not keep sleep away. And
by his vow he must sleep alone with Benoni.

By-and-by, after untiring brooding, the Knight

succeeded in getting his picture done. It was a

i8o

Zbc Xa0t 1Riobt*»IKIlan^erinQ

dismal one, a mosaic of broken, confused recol-
lections, but still, when put together, had some look
of truth.

From the evenings, and from the half-waking
mood which precedes sleep, he remembered more
and more clearly that two shadows moved to and
fro across his forehead, and that Benoni's eyes
glimmered between them like stars amidst clouds.

He remembered wandering in the forest at
Benoni's side, and during the day he tried to find
again the path he believed he had trodden during
the night. But his memory baffled him and played
him tricks, and he walked altogether another way,
sometimes miles astray, instead of the one which
led to the pile of rocks.

And he remembered why he wandered, and his
trysts with Singoalla; but his memory was linked
to the horror his fancy held of the brown heathen
girl, and hence was set about with a thick mist,
from out of which glimmered fitfully most dreadful
shapes.

But his mistrust of Benoni was now rooted fast.

He brooded over a plan. Every evening he went

to bed he hoped to be able to carry it out ; but

i8i

Singoalla

Benoni's power overcame him. All the lad's being
seemed to melt into this power.

The fortieth day after Benoni's arrival at Eko
Castle had come. It was a cloudy day, with wind
and rain. The waves foamed on the lake, the tops
of the forest trees bent, clouds gathered round the
crags. The sun sank behind dark, wan clouds.
Evening came on, and the gloomy brooder went to
his tower-chamber accompanied, as always, by the
pilgrim. But the Knight had first hidden a keen-
edged hunting-knife in his doublet.

Erland went to bed. Benoni lay down on his
mat. The hour-glass whispered, the vanes on the
roof creaked, the waves of the lake roared.

Before going to bed the Knight had said he
was very tired; he fell at once into his natural sleep,
as Benoni heard from his breathing.

Then the pilgrim stole up to the Knight's bed,
and his little hands moved like thin shadows over
the forehead of the sleeper and down towards his
breast.

But only for a very short while. The Knight

sat up.

"The power works already," said the little

182

Zbc *lla0t IRiobt^Manbering

one to himself. "Arise and follow me!" he bade
sofdy.

The Knight arose. Benoni seized his hand, led
him down the stairs, through the noise of waves
and foam, into the forest.

"It is an awful night," said the boy, with his
locks fluttering in the wind. " Hark, how it
howls around us ! How cold the wind is ! What
if the trees fall on us, father! Let us make
haste I "

" Where are you taking me ? " asked the Knight
dreamily.

" To whom else should I lead you than to
Singoalla, my mother ? " said Benoni, wondering.

" Then Singoalla is your mother ? "

" Surely. How strangely you talk to-night I "

The Knight saw without doubt that his questions
were not fitly put, and that he had better be silent,
for he walked a long time at the pilgrim's side
without uttering a word.

Thus they went deeper and deeper into the
forest.

The dark, wind-driven clouds, like a storm-
crippled ship, drifted about the heavens, and ever

183

Sinaoalla

and anon let the moon shed a sickly yellow light
over the fields. The branches swung to and fro,
and the waving leaves threw a shifting lattice,
flecked with a thousand lights and shadows where
the moonlight struck the forest, and all things
seemed living, moving, and leaping in weird medley.
But where the leaves were thicker and the trees
stood closer, pitchy darkness brooded over the path
of the two wanderers.

What was that shining yonder, far away
amongst the trunks of the trees? It was not
moonlight, but the red flames spread by torches.
There came a sound of voices in the forest which
were not those of the wind, and they cried :

" Alako, have mercy! Alako . . . Alako . . .!"

Benoni grew frightened. The Knight mut-
tered, "The spirits of hell are met together to-
night."

" Father," said the boy, pressing closer to him,
" I am afraid ... it is an awful night . . . protect
me !

"Father!" said Erland to himself; "a strange

word for this strange pilgrim from hell's depth to

use. Do not fear, ' he added aloud, seizing the

184

Zbc Xaet 1Riabt^IIaan^c^ng

boy roughly by the arm; "nobody shall take you
from me."

So they wandered on under the creaking,
groaning, and moaning trees ; through pale yellow
moonshine and black shadows. And ever, but
farther off, resounded cries of many voices : "Alako!
Alako!" In the hiss of the storm, in the moan
of the lake, in the ghostly moonlight, in the phan-
tom flying clouds themselves, there was a weird,
foreboding feeling of death.

" Alako ! " thought the Knight, listening scorn-
fully to this cry ; " what does that word mean ?
Where have I heard it before ? Ah, I know
it . . . the spell that put fetters on my soul. But
to-night it sounds in vain. To-night all charms
are powerless against my purpose."

He stopped and looked with wrath and a

shudder up at the moon, and the face on it

seemed clearer than ever, a face stamped with

riddle and mystery. The Knight lifted his arm

with fist clenched towards the silent watcher in

the sky, and his soul spoke through tightened lips :

" You, yes, you, with the cursed gift of the silver

sickle tied the spirit of my kin to yours by night,

185

SingoaUa

and in the depths of the forests; you, who would
revenge our conversion to the Lord Christ by
driving the heathen woman, a black-eyed vampire,
to suck my heart's blood ! Oh, Alako, my curse
upon you ! "

They drew near the pile of rocks.

" Benoni, is the way to your mother long ? "
asked Erland, groping in his doublet for the
dagger.

" You speak strangely again ... as if you did
not know," said Benoni, watching his father's face.
It was not as it used to be when the secret power
worked in him. It was gloomy as in the day-time,
more dark and ghastly.

A terrible fear rushed through the boy's
soul. He stopped and exclaimed, while his soul
quaked :

" Sir, let us return to the castle. Follow
me!

" A fool's thought, truly, since we have come

out and wandered so long in storm and darkness

to find your mother ! No, pious pilgrim, we will

continue our way. Doubtless we shall soon be

there."

i86

vlbc Xaet 1Ricjht*'Man&crinG

"We return! I bid you!"

" A merry jest, indeed ! Are you not my
servant ? Am I not your master ? Who com-
mands ? "

No doubt remained. The secret power in
which the Httle guide had trusted when he said,
" I bid you," worked no longer. Benoni's will
was master no more. The Knight was awake ;
and Benoni saw it in his wild looks.

Seized with an agony as of death, he fell down
at the feet of the Knight, embraced his knees, and
entreated him :

" Sir . . . father ... do me no hurt ! "

" What do you fear ? Is your conscience evil ?
Listen — no trickery ! Up with you, boy, and lead
me to your mother 1 "

Erland seized the boy roughly by the arm, and
pulled him up.

" I will lead you to her. But . . . you will
not kill her ? You will not do my mother any
harm, will you ? "

"Think not of her safety, but of your own,"

said the Knight. "Will you obey, or dare you

defy me .'* "

187

Sinooalla

" Sir, I obey. ... I obey gladly, but pro-
mise . . ."

" Peace ! " cried the Knight, and, unable to
hide any longer his mood, unsheathed his hunting-
knife. "You are in league with your mother, and
as truly as she has sucked the life out of my heart,
I vow that her own heart shall this night quiver
on my knife. And for you, if you stay a moment
to show me the way to her I swear I will kill you,
and find the way myself. And if I do not find her
this night, to-morrow my hunting-horn shall sound,
the hounds shall be loosed, and the beaters shall
draw in round this witch from hell. She shall not
escape me. So try not my patience with another
word ! Remember for your own good the oath of
obedience you have sworn to me ! Forward ! "

"No, no!" exclaimed Benoni, as if he cried
for help, and again embraced the Knight's knees,
who tore his arms asunder and spurned him with
hatred and loathing.

" Wretch, whom I could crush with a blow of

my fist ! Up, I say, and bring me to where our

wandering ends ! Obey or die ! "

"Father, spare me! Do not kill me!"

i88

Zbc Xaet 1Wiobt*Mant)crincj

"Father!" repeated the Knight with redoubled
rage ; " you who with your devilish tricks have
long spell-bound and ruined my soul, you the scum
of hell, bastard of devil and witch, you dare to
defile a Christian with the name of father! You
shall die with your mother. For the last time I
command. Dp and show me the way ! "

And as the boy did not stir, the Knight seized
his arm and dragged him along. Benoni's limbs
were struck against roots of trees, and lacerated by
thorn-bushes. Pain and frig^ht wruns" moans from
his lips, but his lamentation, and the feeble resist-
ance he made, exhausted the patience of the
Knight, who was revelling in dreams of blood. He
stopped, looked at his victim with bitterest detesta-
tion, and plunged his dagger into his breast.

He had gone a few steps from the spot, which
was stained with Benoni's blood, when he stopped
and said to himself:

'"Father!" What a lie!"

He again went a few steps, but stopped and
repeated :

" ' Father ! ' A lie, cruel, shocking, and past

forofiveness ! I will return and shout in his ear,

i8g

SitiGoalla

'You lied! I am not your father.' ... I will cry,

' Cursed be you for this lie ! ' "

A black cloud passed over the moon and left
the land in darkness. But the Knight fancied he
heard the death-rattle of some one, and guided him-
self by the sound. His foot struck against a body.
He bent down over it. At this moment the cloud
passed away. The moon shone on a face which
was not Benoni's, a face awfully twisted and livid,
sprinkled with bloody foam, the face of an unknown,
swarthy man. His breast was naked, and the
Knight, who looked at him amazed, saw on it the
marks of the mighty slayer of men : boils and black
spots.

"The Plague!" muttered the Knight with
paling lips.

He rose and walked on without knowing

whither. He put his hand to his forehead, and

the blood rushed through his whirling brain. Now

he quickened his pace ; now he stopped and looked

up at the wan, sad moon. He walked without

thought or aim. He heard at times the leaves of

the trees whisper words so horrible that he started

at them ; sometimes words so mocking that he

190

^be Xaet 1RiGbt='iimanbennG

gnashed his teeth with anger, and tore from their
branches the leaves which had whispered thus ;
sometimes words so droll that he burst out laueh-
ing, sometimes so sad that he shed tears.

Most strangely of all, however, did the pine up
on yonder hill, at the trysting-place by the forest
brook, whisper to the night-wanderer who ap-
proached it, for thither had chance directed his
steps. It stood there as of old, slender, straight,
proud, and braving the storm. Did the old pine-
tree mourn for the broken spirit ? Did it pity the
gaunt figure, which formerly was so noble in its
pride and strength ? Or did it mock him ? He
could not tell, but he longed to make sure, and
listened, and while listening he heard from the
height yonder, or from within his own bosom,
a theme which rang thus in his memory :

• •••••

" Out yonder stands the hill where trees
Whisper so soft in evening's breeze.
Oh, heart, thou soarest !

Art there, Singoalla ? Though these eyes cannot see thee,
Whence else can that fragrant perfume come, I prithee ?
The forest lies silent, by man 'tis unridden,
Yet it echoes ' Singoalla,' that name comes unbidden.

191

Singoalla

Is that the dark form of fir-tree low bending ?
Or rose-tree spread out to the wind's gentle tending?
My heart says, ' Singoalla here waits love's caressing,'
So I press on, to press near, with love past expressing I

Ah ! sweet it is to meet one's Love I

But sweeter far when twilights rove

O'er field and forest."

Ah, why recall that ditty ? Why sing it now ?

It has neither scorn nor pity in it, but is merely

meaningless nonsense. A man may neither hate it

nor mock it. Of that the nio^ht-wanderer felt sure.

Then he remembered the dagger which he still

carried in his hand, and looking at the blade in

the moonshine, he thought :

" Perhaps this is blood of my blood."

He flung the weapon from him, and fancied

himself almost at ease. Indeed, his soul and mind

were so split and riven that he did not know

himself. Cut a snake into pieces, and each will

quiver and twitch like a living thing ere all

become stiff and dead scraps of what was once

alive. But why they should try to join and become

one again, according to popular belief, this the

wanderer in the dark could not understand. He

192

(Ibc OLaat inii3ht^Iimant)ennG

desired no such reunion. Ay, to die was best,
and he might surely smile at death, since he
knew that death was passing over the world,
and would root out the murderous brood bred
from dust. Afterwards the grass and flowers would
grow unharmed by cattle, and no axe would fell
the trees as unhampered they wove their boughs
into one vault over the silent earth. Then Paradise
would be restored in all its splendour. But let no
Adam and Eve come and spoil it again ! After a
new Adam would follow a new Cain who killed his
brother, and after Cain would come fathers who
killed their sons, and sons who killed their fathers.
And with such misty thoughts the Knight walked
at random in the forest.

So it came to pass that towards daybreak he saw
a gleam of fire, and thither directed his steps.

193 13

VII.
Dawn.

HE firelight came from the pile of rocks.

This night, Singoalla had decided, and
had so told Benoni, was to be the last
night of her happiness. Was this a forecast
of what this very same night was to bring
in its train ? No. Though Singoalla possessed
a true spirit of divination, which exercise had
strengthened, she would have declared that it
was a resolution, not a prediction. The happi-
ness she had enjoyed was ineffable. It had re-
duced to nought all that she had suffered, and her
heart swelled with thankfulness to God for the
strange joy of these nights, for the hours spent at
the side of her darling and husband. They were
now numbered, these hours, for she saw that Erland
could not bear them. He would die if the sfulf
between the life of day and night continued. But

would not the recollection of them be mighty

194

Dawn

enough to sweeten the grief she must feel after
bidding Erland her last, irrevocable farewell, and
for leaving the neighbourhood for ever ? Yet why
reofret ? Cannot life become a dream, where the
imagination gives the heart all that it desires, where
the past is recalled and lives again, and leaves no
room for regret ? Yes, Singoalla would dream
away the rest of her life. Beyond the sea, far
beyond the steppes eastward, there is a country
where the palms tower up to a sky of sapphire, and
the air is drowsy and thick with the fragrance of
flowers. It is the land of rest and dreams. There
stands a strange temple, hewn out of the rock,
guarded by silent priests, all in robes of white.
There slumber on soft cushions, in the shade of
the porticoes, priestesses whose only duty is, to
the noise of drums, to dance clad in raiment of gold
and pearls — a dance in sacrifice to the gods of the
flesh, the lords of things without us that vanish and
change, and which ends, when the drums cease,
in dreaming on eternal nothingness undisturbed.
Thither will Singoalla make her way when she
leaves the country of the pine forest. There she

will tell to the palms tales of the spruce-tree of the

195

Sinooalla

North, she will tell the lotus of the water-lily, and
will tell herself for ever a story of a blue-eyed youth,
and sing it as a lullaby to her heart till it slumbers.
Benoni will be the young priest in this temple,
for the incense of its god must be kindled by
a boy, in whose beauty it is easy to read the
doom of early death. There, in sacred writings
guarded by the priests, Benoni will learn the
wisdom of times long past, before the prophecy
which she had read in the veins of his eyelids had
been fulfilled.

Thus Singoalla had resolved. She had adorned
herself as for a farewell feast. She was more
beautiful to-night than on that day ten years ago,
when Erland saw her for the first time by the
forest brook. Happiness had restored her youthful
beauty, but with a hint in it of the world of spirits
and angels. The love and nobility which penetrated
her being made her beauty seem rather of heaven
than earth. That would have dazzled the eye as if
of another world, had it not kept at the same time
somewhat which was of this world, but part of its
unfathomable depth, something of the pine-forest's
rustling, something of the starry night's mystery,

196

Dawn

something weird, something that whispered of Life
and its symbol. ...

The cave was adorned with the last roses of
autumn. Assim had kindled the fire on the hearth.
Sineoalla had told him that he did it now for the
last time, and Assim had received the news without
a word. Singoalla had asked him to have every-
thing ready for departure on the morrow, and in
silence he had fulfilled her wish. He now stood
gazing silently at the fire, watching how the brands
darkened, were charred and turned to ashes.
Sometimes it seemed to him as if he looked not
in the fire of the hearth but into that in his own
heart.

Singoalla was sitting on her bed of moss, leaning
her head on her hand, lost in dreams, or listening to
sounds which mig-ht herald the arrival of those
whom she awaited eagerly. Thus would she
sit hour after hour. Her life during these days
had been made of such waiting. She hardly per-
ceived the flight of time, though she counted the
moments.

Outside, the storm raged. Now and then a gust

of wind found its way between the flat rocks into

197

Singoalla

the cave and threatened to extinguish the fire that
illumined it.

"They tarry to-night," said Assim after hours
of silence. His words needed no reply, and re-
ceived none: and he said to himself, as he put a
few boughs on the fire, "The fire will burn a little
while longer — soon it will be extinguished — that is
well. We shall have peace."

Assim went to the mouth of the cave and looked
up to the sky, where the moon was wandering
among the clouds, and listened with joy to
the song of the storm. He felt that the forest of
the North had never sounded so grandly. He
wished to set his feelings to words, but could not.
But he understood that in some way there were
blended in the song, dignity and wrath, agony
and manly courage, dark trial, and certainty of
victory.

But amongst these tones there were others

which were not those of the storm. From out the

forest came shouts of "Alako, Alako ! " and Assim's

countenance, which had till now shown something

poetical and dreamy, now became all awake with

listening astonishment. When he felt sure that

198

Dawn

his ear had not deceived him, he said in a loud
voice to Singoalla :

" There are some here in the forest calHng
upon the god of our people ! "

"It is the echo of my prayer," said Singoalla,
lifting up her head; "I have asked the god of
our people to give me strength for renunciation,
and have received it. But do you not hear other
voices in the forest? The voices of Erland and
Benoni ? "

"No."

" The night is terrifying for such as are fearful.
Perhaps Benoni's heart trembles and fear leads his
steps astray. Go and meet them, Assim, and lead
them hither."

" There is much to be learned in the forest
to-night." said Assim as he went. And when he
returned, he carried the dying boy in his arms and
laid him down at Singoalla's feet.

• •••••

Truly it was a work of labour to find a way

through, or clamber over, these rocks and crags

with which the ground was so thickly strewn, and

the worse as it was night, and the only light was

199

Sincjoalla

the uncertain moonlight. The Knight, however,
seemed to have so little difficulty that he fancied
he must have traversed the rough path more
than once, so familiar did it seem. It struck
him, too, as being curious that never in his
boyhood, in spite of his many wanderings in the
forest recesses, had he ever lighted upon this
strange path before — a path which seemed to lead
to the very castle of the mountain king.

But he had not advanced far from the entrance
of the cave, when a sudden thought struck him:
"What was the reason of this night's wandering?"
Was it to follow the example of the heathen god
Thor by killing the most spiteful witch of all the
forest — that seducing giantess who had sucked the
life's power from his heart ? But he remembered
the Plague had come upon the world, to root out
every living thing, and so render all other killing
needless, ay, mean and ridiculous. He remembered
also the pale boy and the word "father," and he
thought of the dagger, dripping with blood that
cried for vengeance, which he had flung amongst
the bushes, and of the pine-tree waving on the hill-
top and its song :

200

3E)avon

" Ah ! sweet it is to meet one's Love !
But sweetest far when twilights rove
O'er field and forest."

There was confusion In such a rabble of
memories, and the Knight could not set them in
order. "But," he said musingly, "why give heed
to any one of them, why take the least thought
for anything past, present, or to come ? I am out
walking for the sake of a walk only, without any
other purpose. I enter this cave because by chance
my steps have reached it, and for no other reason
whatsoever. Man's mind is as the bed of a stream,
through which his thoughts unceasingly flow. He
lets them go on their way, and does not try to
hold any back as they move past him."

In this frame of mind he continued his walk and
stepped carelessly into the cave.

He looked around. Beside him, leaning against
the wall, there stood a man of dark complexion, who
fixed his glowing eyes upon him. This did not
trouble the Knight, however. It was only another
of those visions to which he need give no heed.
But farther on in the cave he saw something else.
He saw a woman, more beautiful than his imagina-

201

Singoalla

tion had ever painted; more devoured by sorrow,
as she knelt over the dead boy, than the Knight
could have believed possible ; for all the sorrow and
pain he had ever known had been mixed with weak-
ness and desire for consolation, or with despair or
wrath. But this sorrow was utterly unalloyed and
absolute. He recoo-nised in this woman features
which he had loved and hated, idolised and cursed.
In his memory arose pictures of sunshine and
fragrance of flowers, alternating with others of
night and terror. He again felt confounded. Then
he heard the dark man's voice saying :

*' Singoalla, the Knight is here. You need no
longer wait for death,"

And the man, seizing his arm, said to the
Knight :

" Do not hesitate, but finish what you have
begun ! She knows the errand on which you come.
Benoni had only time to announce you before his
eyes closed in death. You come to revenge the
injury Singoalla did you when she made you the
licrht of her eyes and the desire of her heart, the
husband of her promise and her son's father. She
has cruelly insulted you by her love and fidelity.

202

5)a\vii.

SiHgoaiia.\

[Face p. 2o2.

'■ THF ^

2)awn

She deserves death, and desires it from your hands.
She wants to die beside your own son, the first
victim of your just wrath. Yes, she is utterly to
blame, and deserves death — I swear it — I who have
heard the innumerable sighs the remembrance of
you has wrung from her, and seen the countless
tears she has shed for your sake. Kill her, Sir
Knight ! and then the hour of reckoning between
you and me ! "

"It is needless," said the Knight; "you are
right that I came here to kill her, but the forest has
changed my mind. The Plague has arrived, and it
is idle to meddle with Death's work. This and
much more I have learned this night from the
forest. Moreover, this woman is not the same as
the one I am seeking — though they are alike.
Yonder woman is a human being ; she is shedding
tears over her dead child, and she seems to me so
sad, that I feel woe in my soul when I look at
her. ..."

" What," cried Assim, "do you hesitate to finish

what you have begun ? Dare you shrink back ?

If you dare, you will hear the dreadful news

that "

203

SinGoalla

"Hold!" said the Knight. "I have courage
for anything and fear nothing. No one has
ever yet said that I fear. I will consider this
thing without flinching. Trouble me not, for
there is light dawning upon my mind, and I
shall soon set in order my memories. This
woman's face shines far into the deeps of what
I have forgotten,"

"Make haste, then," cried Assim ; "she wishes
to die by your hand. She cannot live and at the
same time know that you, her husband, have killed
her son, who is also your son. Do not be cruel to
the poor woman ! She desires death as a boon.
Reward her for the gentleness she shows you ! She
has not uttered a hard word against the murderer
of her child. She has accused herself, but not
you. ..."

"Yes," said the Knight, "you are right. Her

face wears a tender, touching benevolence. I love

that face, although the sight of it is near making

my heart melt. I am a hard and harsh man, of a

hasty temper, and apt to despise mankind ; but this

woman would, by her mere presence, change me,

the more so if I could sit down at her feet, and she

204

Dawn

would vouchsafe to read to me from some holy book
of God's love and mercy. . . ."

" He is not the man he used to be," said Assim,
shuddering ; " he talks like a madman. Sir Knight,"
he cried out, "do not put together your recollec-
tions. Beware of the memories of your youth, or
you will remember the chief's fifteen-year-old
daughter, the tender child whose heart you stole.
You would see a reality, and would be seized with
a repentance beyond all enduring. No, keep your
holy prejudices, which up till now have been your
armour, your shield and bow, and rush blindly for-
ward on the way that you have sprinkled with
blood ! I tell you, this dark-eyed woman is a being
of a kind other than yours, a child of impenetrable
Nature, who, like the flowers, has not received any
other baptism than the dew and rain of heaven,
never adored beneath any other temple than the star-
strewn dome of the sky, and never been enveloped
by incense other than the mists of the earth. She
never was sprinkled with holy water, never blessed
by the hands of a priest, and has no hope of enter-
ing your heaven. Understand you not that she is

an outcast, a heathen, half a sorceress, a witch who,

205

Singoalla

with the unholy magic of her looks and face and
voice, has bewitched you, and thus for her unspeak-
able crime has deserved death ? Up, Knight, and
stab her ! You are without a weapon — take this
sword ! Murder the witch, just as you have mur-
dered her offspring ! Quick ! no reflection ! Quick,
or it is I who will kill you ! " And Assim put the
sword into Erland's hand, and tried to drag him
along with him. But the Knight loosened himself
from his grasp, and said calmly :
y "You talk as I have heard monks talk. You
are seeking to confound me, but you shall not
succeed. Yonder woman is no witch, but a child
of God who is grieving for the misfortunes of the
world, and has a heart that can feel even my
misery. I will not deny that I am unhappy. I feel
ready to weep and repent, though I do not know
aright if I have wronged another only, or if fate
also has wronged me. ..."

He took a few steps towards Singoalla and
went on :

" Poor woman, you are mourning this boy, and

you know not, perhaps, that it is I who killed him.

On my honour as a knight I declare that I would

206

Dawn

gladly give my life to redeem his and assuage
your pain, but I may not do so, and therefore I
promise only what I can perform — namely, that I
will never again return to my roof, but, if the
Plague spare me, wear a hair-shirt all my days and
live on roots, and daily ask God's forgiveness for
me, a sinner. This I will do. Henceforth, from
this moment I will never again see my wife Helen,
or my son Erland ; I will forsake my castle and
possessions, and pass my life as a penitent in this
forest. To you this will give no consolation ; but it
will comfort me, for every moment shows me my
unhappiness. The more I look at you, the more
light dawns on my mind, the more my recollec-
tions become distinct, the more I am assured that
you . . . O God ! . . . that you . . . yes, I re-
cognise you, Singoalla . . . you, the dream of my
youth . . . my first love . . . my wife ! "

Hitherto immovable like a statue, Singoalla now
bent lower over her son's corpse, and the Knight
heard her weeping. Then he went up to her, lifted
her up, and pressed her to his bosom. His chest
heaved, his eyes grew moist with tears, through

which beamed the glance of a brightened spirit.

207

Singoalla

His embrace, however, was brief. A thought put
an end to it ; the Knight turned away, and with his
hand pressed to his forehead he went out of the
cave ; and Assim, who followed him through the
pile of rocks, saw him slowly disappear in the
forest.

208

Z\K iplaguc.

/

Sing^oi/i,!.]

Face p. 208.

V t

t^

UKlVtRS;

'^^^.

VIII.

The Plague.

HE day came with heavy air and overcast

sky. Only now and then did the sun

penetrate the clouds, and then only with

a strange, dull, yellow light. The wind had fallen,

but the calm which ensued brouofht along; with it —

notwithstanding the cloudy sky — sultriness only.

Early in the morning the monks were aroused
from their sleep by a violent ringing. John, the
lay-brother, opened the door, and saw a man dressed
in tawdry, ragged garb. He asked leave to speak
to the monks. Soon some of them appeared with
the Prior at their head. With a hurried glance
Father Henry examined the man's face, and
exclaimed, "What do you wish? You belong to
the godless people who ten years ago plundered
this monastery, or my eyes deceive me."

But the man replied, "You have had time to

forget that ! I come now to ask you for help, if

209 14

SinQoalla

you have any help to give. We arrived here last
nicrht, and have encamped in the forest. The
Plague is raging amongst us ! "

" The Plague?" repeated the Prior with stiffen-
ing tongue.

"Yes, the Black Death!" said the man.

" The Black Death ! " repeated the monks,
some of them reeling against the pillars of the
archway, others throwing themselves on their faces
to the floor, and others bowing their pallid faces on
their breasts, and muttering ''Miserere, Dominef'

Father Henry was the first to recover himself.
He said to the man, "We will all follow you."

"Up!" he continued, addressing the monks.
"The reaper is come. It is our duty to save the
wheat while the tares are pulled up and burned
in eternal fire. Up and prepare yourselves for a
solemn procession! Take the cross, the Host, a
basin for baptism, and the Holy Relics with you!

Come!"

The monks arose trembling. A quarter of an
hour afterwards the procession marched out of the
monastery. The stranger led the way. The lonely
wanderers who met it threw themselves on the

210

^be plague

ground. Some among them knew already of the
arrival of the ghastly visitor ; others, however, who
had arrived from their lonely homes in the wilder-
ness, and who had not seen a human face that
morning, were ignorant of it. The monks, advanc-
ing with cross and banners, Host and reliquary,
sang, but the soft strains of the hymn were lost
in the heavy air as if the forest's echo had died
away :

"Aufer imfnensatn, Deus, aufer iram,
Et cruentatum cohibeflagellum :
Nee scelus nostrum properes ad aquam
Pendere lancem.

Non opus summi per eat magistj i
Nee sinas passani fore passionem,
Corde sed manans lavet omne erioien
Sanguis et unda.^'^

A crowd followed the procession as, guided by
the stranger, it marched to the clearing where the

' Turn aside, O Lord, Thy boundless wrath, and hold Thy
destructive scourge. Weigh not our offences in the balance of Thy
inexorable justice.

Let not the Supreme Master's work perish. Let not Thy passion
be in vain. Wash all our offences in the blood and water that flows
from Thy Heart.

211

Singoalla

strange people were now encamped, as they were
ten years ago.

And here they saw the dead, the sick and
dying. Here was seen mute despair, terror of
death, grief and helplessness. Some of the strange
people uttered wildly : " Alako, Alako ! " Others
hurried with cups to and from a neighbouring
spring to cool the sick with its water.

The cries of suffering ceased as the procession
neared the edge of the forest, and the melancholy
tones of the Plague-hymn chimed over the clearing.
Wrapped round by the thin smoke of incense, the
procession passed slowly round the field. But
through the crowd, which curiosity had gathered,
there spread the one whispered word "Plague,"
which scattered the people like chaff before the wind !

Father Henry seized the cross, walked between
the dead and living, and planted the sacred symbol
in the midst of the field of sorrow. Then the
monks scattered over the clearino; to save souls
from heathenry, and relieve the suffering. The
sick and the whole alike bowed before the bowl of
baptism, and thus were cleansed to gain grace from
God and the Christ. Many of the sick, after bap-

212

Zbc plaouc

tism, were anointed with the holy oil ere they died.
Parched palates were refreshed with wine and
water, despairing minds with words of consolation.
The strangers who were untouched by the Plague
were exhorted to take their spades and dig a grave
for the dead. This they did, and a monk said mass
hourly in an even, trembling, unwearied voice, on
the brink of this grave which claimed more and
more victims.

While the monks were thus engaged, the news
of the great manslayer spread over the whole neigh-
bourhood. All hearts trembled. Many a one set
his wits to turn the evil from himself and his dear
ones. Some fled with wife and children to the
south of the forests ; the dwellers in lonely forest
farms brought out their bows and arrows against
any one who dared to approach their homes.

But the grisly guest could not be scared by
bows and arrows. In the course of the few weeks
past suspected deaths had occurred here and
there in the neighbourhood, but no one believed, or
was willing to believe, that it was the work of the
destroyer. Now that none could doubt his pres-
ence, the last barriers to his lust for slaying seemed

213

Stngoalla

utterly broken down. The night after the arrival
of the strange people, the destroying angel flew from
door to door, and no holy sign on the door-post
could bar his entrance.

• ••«••

** No, their water and wine, and oil, and song,
and incense are of no avail. We must die. Let
us then live while we may. We are wanderers and
fearless. Let us feast and be merry even on the
brink of the grave."

Thus spoke the men of the strange people, and
took their arms and went off to the castle of Eko,
the cellars of which they believed were well stored
with beer and wine. When they came to the
sound, they found the drawbridge up, and in the
castle-yard men who had tied cloths round their
faces so that hardly more than their eyes were
visible. They walked apart, as if they feared to
come too near one another.

"Halloo! Down with the bridge!" shouted
the strangers.

The few men in the castle-yard answered this

exhortation with threatening gestures, then with a

shower of stones and arrows. But the strangers,

214

Zbc iplaouc

undeterred by this, waded across the sound, and the
people of the castle fled in boats across the lake.
Then there was a merry time in the castle of Eko :
revel and song till night, when the troop marched
off, lit up by the flames of the towers and battle-
ments they had set alight.

But Lady Helen, with her son and servants, in
the forenoon of this the last day of the castle, had
already taken refuge in the monastery, in the hope
of finding, within the walls of the sanctuary and in
the company of the men of God, calm for their
trembling souls. No one knew where Erland and
the little pilgrim were.

• •*•••

Seven days had passed when at midnight the
door-bell of the monastery rang. After a while
steps were heard in a corridor, and a voice asked,
" Who is there ? "

*' Brother janitor! friend John! I know your
voice. Open to Erland Bengtson Moneskdld ! "

"What!" cried the brother, "are you still
alive, Sir Knight? Or are my ears playing me
a trick ? "

The door was opened, and the lay-brother's

215

Singoalla

pale, thin face, staring and amazed, appeared by
the light of the lamp he held in his hand.

"Brother John," said the Knight, "be not
afraid ! I am no phantom but a living man, strange
as it may seem to us both. Wheresoever I have
turned my eyes, the field is so well mown that
hardly a straw stands upright."

"All is changed since I saw you last, Sir
Knight. If you please to enter this abode of death,
you will be the only one under this roof living,
except myself."

" No," replied the Knight, " I have made a vow
never again to enter a dwelling built by human
hands ; and, moreover, death dwells without as
well as within. The world is a graveyard, and
you seem to me. Brother John, as one who has
been buried in it alive. Such another I seem
myself, for my heart is surely buried and cannot
feel sorrow again."

" 'Tis well, for otherwise your bosom could not

hold your grief Know you that your wife is dead,

that all your most faithful servants are dead, and

that your father and teacher, Father Henry, is no

more with us ? Have you seen the burnt remnants

216

Cbc Ikiiu-ibt all^ tbj /llboiih.

SiHgoalla ]

(Face p. 2 16.

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*!▼l^^^

f UNIVERSITY

^M

'[

\^

.^^

X"i'

^be plague

of your castle, Sir Knight ? All is vanity, all,
all ! "

"Set down your lamp and follow me," said the
Knight. "It is nothing new to me that all that is
dear to me is lost."

"The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away;
blessed be the name of the Lord ! " sighed the
monk, as he set out to walk by the Knight's side.
"It is only a few hours ago that I buried my
beloved Prior, and most wondrous ! . . . my eyes
have shed no tears for his memory. It is with me
as with you : I have buried my heart in the grave
of my brethren."

"Which died first, my wife or my son ? " asked
the Knight, and his voice faltered a little.

'Your son still lives . . . have I not told

you ? . . . unless he has died since I laid him in

the arms of the Comforter. God sent me an

angel in the guise of a woman, who sat giving

comfort to your wife as she died. Who she was

I know not. She had never been seen in this

neighbourhood before. She spoke beautiful words

to the dying Lady Helen, and often spoke your

name to cheer her."

217

SingoaUa

" Then I know who this woman was," said the
Knight; "and it was in her arms you laid my
son r

" Yes, what else could I do ? "

"Has she gone away?"

"Yes; she followed the strange people — or
rather, the strange people followed her. It was a
wonderful sight. When she first showed herself
to them, the despairing gave her hearty greeting,
those who raved grew calm, and the Plague fled
from the clearing. She is a being of a higher
nature, and your son reposes well in her arms."

The two men wandered toofether for a while in
silence. The Knight somehow felt strangely at
ease, as he had now nothing to lose, nothing to
hope for. He felt himself at last standing free
against his fate. He had lost all, but he did not
murmur. What folly to lay claim, among change,
decay, and death, to enjoy unbroken happiness in
this life ! Who plays a part in the chequered scene
of life's passions perhaps may realise the meaning
of what he plays, but the cloud which floats in the
rosy golden morn has little share in thoughts of

eternity. The sparkle of sun-lit water, the heave

218

Zbc plaaue

and fall of the wave, the whisper in the oak's crest,
why ask of them an eternity that is not in them ?
Can you so fix them that they will defy decay ?
Then why seek to do so for castle and tower, riches
and honour, or the happiness of home life, or aught
of what unthinking man grasps at, and for which,
when lost, he sheds useless tears ? He who has
once set his foot on the rock of eternity would not
fear even the wreck of the Universe with all its
stars, or if the heavens and the earth were shivered
to atoms. It is only a sunbeam that has died away,
a billow that has sunk, a murmur that is still. The
Knight looked up at the stars and felt that what-
soever fate was written in them for him, he would
never again be frightened or glad. He was free —
free from all the pomps and vanities, and changes
and chances of this mortal life ; free from all that
can be measured by time. But behind all this
there loomed in his soul a glimpse of something
which never faded. What the vanished images of
Helen, little Erland, Benoni, and Singoalla signi-
fied, what their coming and going meant, was some-
thing beyond the reach of death, though perhaps in

death he might find the answer.

219

SinGoalla

A ghastly picture was the night in the forest
when the moonHght quivered on the blood-stained
blade, but even that image did not terrify him now.
He owned that crime must be atoned for, and he
was ready and willing, as far as guilt rested upon
him, to let unswervinor veng-eance claim its due. He
had no scales to weigh his share in the dark fortune
of his life, and if he had had them he would have
thrown them away without using them, for he felt
no desire to bargain, and haggle, and make terms
with his crime and its retribution. Then he
thought of another symbol — that of atonement, and
listened with devotion as Brother John, who walked
by his side, broke the silence, and in a low voice
sang a verse of the Plague-hymn :

"Z>a crucevi^ ciavos, scuticain, coronam,
Laficeam^ funes rigidatnque mortem
Inter irntam mediare dextram

Et mala nostra."^

Erland Moneskold and Brother John wandered
all night in the forest. When the morning sun

' Grant, O Lord, that Thy Cross, nails, crown of thorns, lance,
the ropes that bound Thee, and Thy Body stiff in death may stand
between Thy right hand raised in wrath and our iniquities.

220

I

Zbc ipiaguc

rose over a landscape, the calm of which was
cheered by no song of bird, tinkling cow-bell, nor
herdsman's horn — because the Black Death had
just abandoned it and left silence in its wake —
the two men were standing on the hill by the forest
brook, and Brother John said:

"And so, Brother Erland, it is on this hill that
we must dig our hermitage."

"Yes," said Erland, "here we will make our
abode." He cast a glance down on the grassy turf
at the foot of the hill, where, by the border of the
brook, a few of the last flowers of autumn were still
lingering. Thence his glance wandered into the
forest, whence in former days the beloved of his
soul used to come to meet him.

" Shall we make our habitation on the east
side ? " asked John. " We shall then be awakened
by the dawn, and can greet the rising sun with a
morning hymn."

"No, brother," said Erland; "unless you desire
the east side, let us choose this one to the west,
towards the brook where we can bid the evening
sun, symbol of the setting sun of our own lives,
farewell with the hymn of the hope of resurrection."

221

Singoalla

" Well, then, we will choose the west side. ..."
"If you do not desire the other. ..."
"No, no, good brother," said John, looking
with a gentle glance at the whilom knight's face,
once so stern and commanding, now so gentle and
submissive. " Let us return to the monastery and
fetch our spades ! And then to our work ! "

222

IX.

The Hermits of the Forest.
T was a fine summer's eveningf. The

&•

horizon in the west was tinged with gold
and purple. The rain which had fallen
at midday had refreshed the fields ; the spruce-
trees and meadows exhaled perfume, and people
breathed the pure air with delight.

Far in the forest the settler's axe was heard, and
there work went on briskly ; for the fields, which
for twenty-five years — ever since the time of the
Plague — had lain untilled, were now ripe for the
ploughshare.

At the entrance of his cave sat one of the

hermits of the neighbourhood, Erland, the man of

God, who was deeply revered by the people. An

hour ago he left the garden, where almost all day

long he had been busy with hoe and spade. He

now sat on his mossy couch, gazing with dreaming

eyes at the sunset glow, which shone from his calm

223

Singoalla

face. In his hand he held a book, the reflections of
a mystic, his favourite book, fetched several years
ago from the vault of the abandoned monastery.

Brother John, the other hermit, had just re-
turned from fishing in the lake, and was now
preparing supper.

John, who seldom broke the silence so dear to
Erland, was this night talkative beyond his wont.
He had on his way from the lake seen something
strange in the forest, and could not help telling it.

He had seen men of unknown aspect, noble
and proud in their manners, and attired in splendid
armour, restinof with their horses in the forest.
They had, no doubt, journeyed from afar, and had
asked him in the Latin tongue the best road
for horsemen northwards to Lake Wetter. Who
they were and what their errand was he did not
know,

Erland listened kindly, not because such an

event was really uncommon, or perhaps worth

thinking of, but because John evidently took

pleasure in talking of it, and seemed to make some

claim to curiosity on his friend's part.

Who these men were and what their errand was,

224

'/fen^

JDiotbcr 3obn.

Singoalla. ]

[FllCe p. 22^.

r^

I

I ■ V

^

rj»-

O THF *^ \

ZTbe Ibcrmits of tbc jforeet

John, as we said before, did not know, and the tale
itself can only be hinted at, for darkness broods
over so much of the past. The secret writings
which, under seven seals, in the archives of a
Brotherhood, prove the descent of this brotherhood
from one older and now dissolved, would, if opened
to profane eyes, reveal much about a pilgrimage
which the Knights of the Vanished Temple and
the Searchers for the Burning Pyre made to the
North, to find there, if possible, the beginnings of
an old-world worship, of which they had gathered
portions from the pagodas of India, the pyramids of
Egypt, the underground caves of Delphi and Eleusis,
what remained of Solomon's Temple, and the crom-
lechs of the Druids, and to blend them all in a halo
of glory round the Cross. They might tell, these
chronicles, that one of these pilgrims was the young
.son of an Indian priestess, an initiated Knight of
the Vanished Temple, skilled in the wisdom of East
and West, and owner of great treasure. Beyond
this the legend says no more.

While Brother Krland was still reposing at the
entrance of the cave, and looking dreamily at ihe
fading sunset glow, one of the strangers — a sturdy

225 15

Singoalla

youth of brown complexion, but fair hair — was
seen to approach from the other side of the brook.
He stopped, looked about him with glances of
seeming recognition, though surely he had never
been on this spot before, then crossed the water to
the hermit, and sat down on the mossy seat by his
side.

John, who stood some distance off, beheld this
with amazement, and his wonder increased when
Erland and the youth conversed together, and
Erland's countenance, as they talked, assumed an
expression of eager attention. John's wonder
reached its height when at last he saw the youth,
after a long embrace, part from Erland, with tears,
and return to the forest.

John was loath to ask the meaning of what he
saw, lest his questioning might seem over-curious,
and ill-befitting a hermit's life. But he expected
that Erland himself would some day speak of the
matter.

Erland, however, never said anything concern-
ing it. On the following morning, when John went
fishing in the lake. Brother Erland accompanied

him.

226

after a Xonci jEmbracc.

Sin^oalla,]

tPace p< 226;

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[f^ " \ f*" V " '"' ■''"'-"•^*-'^-" ^^'-f'-

tt^

J tan

;^i

il

'^1

Ik

XTbe Ibennita of tbc jforest

John pushed off his boat and got ready his
tackle. While doing so, he sang softly a song about
Simon Peter the fisherman. Erland, who sat on
the shore in the shade of a lime-tree, soon was deep
again in his favourite book — On Rest in God.

THE END.

THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING COMPANY, LTD., NRWCASTLE-ON-TVNE.

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